


it feels just like before

by perfchan



Series: it feels permanent to me [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Allura/Lance (Voltron), Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Post-Canon, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slow Burn, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Shiro checks the time.“Shit.” The party selected to conference with the alien diplomats will be pinging him soon, and,The door to his private office decompresses. There’s only a handful of people in the entire universe who know the code required to unlock it.“Please tell me you can summarize the last eighty pages of this in the time it takes to break atmo,” Shiro says without taking his eyes from the datapad.“Shiro.”Shiro stops scrolling. His heart kicks---emotion crawling up his throat from those two syllables alone. His grip tightens on the datapad. That wasn’t Allura’s voice. He looks up from his work.“Keith,” Shiro breathes.Keith raises a hand in greeting, mouth twitching, bemused at Shiro’s obvious shock. “Surprise.”*Bittersweet devotion and words long overdue, blue skies and deepest space, progress and realization and permanence. Shiro learns to live post canon.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: it feels permanent to me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618870
Comments: 81
Kudos: 268





	1. it feels just like before

**Author's Note:**

> this fic picks up right where ‘it feels permanent to me’ left off...kinda. You’ll see :>  
> Thank you to everyone who read the first one and left me such nice comments on it. This second fic took longer than I expected, but I really wanted to continue with the story, so thank you very much for being patient with me. I hope you enjoy:

***

_ The night that Keith finds Shiro again feels like something out of a dream.  _

_ The chemical smell of burning polymer. The sticky air and harsh lights inside the makeshift walls of the structure where they were keeping him, Shiro, tied down, like he’s some kind of monster. The low thrum of generators giving way to frantic alarms being sounded, and shouting from all sides. Shiro’s unconscious weight, unstrapped from the table and pulled to slump heavy over on Keith’s shoulder. The wind whipping Keith’s hair from his face as he raced over familiar red earth with a million questions in his mind and a singular objective in his sight, and one, just one, word written across his heart.  _

_ Shiro.  _

_ This isn’t a dream.  _

_ It’s an unexplainable feeling followed and impossibly fulfilled.  _

_ It’s hope and trust and  _ I will never give up on you  _ made real.  _

_ Now, safe inside the cabin where Keith has made his home the past two years, Shiro is just barely toeing the edges of consciousness. Keith drags a box over wooden floor to sit next to the cot where Shiro is resting.  _

_ Outside the door of the bedroom, there’s a clang-crash followed by the tumble of something falling. There’s the creak of footsteps back and forth. The loud-mouthed one starts whisper-shouting. Big guy might be hyperventilating. The one with glasses sounds excited.  _

_ Keith gets up and presses the door shut, the latch catching with a muffled click. It’s surreal to hear so much noise in his cabin. He’s lived in between snowy radio stations and the lonely drum of his own thoughts for so long. It’s surreal to see Shiro here, in his bed.  _

_ In his memories, and his dreams, Shiro is vibrant. Larger than life, almost.  _

_ Keith can’t imagine what Shiro might have gone through to bring him to this.  _

_ Shiro stirs, a wrinkle between his brows, his jaw clenched.  _

_ Keith sinks down to his side, bending close. He wiggles his fingers under Shiro’s hand lying limp on top of the sheet, until Shiro’s broad palm blankets his own.  _

_ He traces the deep scar across Shiro’s face with his eyes. The shock of white in his hair.  _

_ Keith curls his fingers around that broad palm. Shiro’s knuckles are rough---skin broken and healed and broken again. Keith covers them with his other hand. He holds Shiro’s hand in both of his. Lifts it from Shiro’s side.  _

_ Brings it up to rest against his forehead, until the very tips of Shiro’s fingers are tangled in Keith’s bangs. Keith inhales deep.  _

_ Keith squeezes his eyes shut, but a few tears manage to break free, racing hot down his cheeks. They’re gratitude, and disbelief, and relief from the ache in his chest that hasn’t abated since he first heard the words ‘pilot error.’ They’re sorrow, for everything he doesn’t know about the past two years of Shiro’s life. They’re a promise. To himself. And to Shiro. They’re words he wasn’t able to say before, and he might not be able to say now, but that Keith will still hang on to, forever, if that’s what it takes.  _

*

One decaphoeb, seven phoebs, and three quintants following the battle which signified the end of the war, Shiro is running behind schedule. 

He’s sitting at his desk in the captain’s office, desperately trying to make his way through the last of the six reports he needs to have read prior to the Atlas’ 4 p.m. rendezvous with and introduction to the leaders of this system. Ideally he would have read these reports yesterday evening, but there was a minor maintenance emergency that required him to overhaul the entire U-deck. (Just consider it one of the perks of being mentally linked with a semi-sentient ship.) And this morning was eaten up with his typical duties on the bridge, followed by an impromptu training session with two of the newest MFE pilot recruits. He didn’t really have the time to spare, but they seem more than promising, and they deserve a…

His eyes drift to a thick folder sitting at the edge of his workspace. 

No. Those are excuses. 

The truth is: 

He’s worked at a breakneck pace since he was a teenager applying to the most prestigious flight program on Earth (in spite of his illness and against the advice of his guardians and doctors alike). He was determined to go as far as he could, to see the stars, to achieve  _ higher farther faster younger _ \---always racing against his ever looming expiration date. Ship maintenance? Diplomacy? Mentoring students? Hardly the most difficult thing he’s endured in space. A busy schedule could not best him six years ago and cannot best him now; he  _ thrives  _ on it. 

His restlessness is caused by something else. 

He picks up the folder with its Garrison insignia---not the pair of G’s nestled together, it’s the new logo, the one that the institution adopted after the war---embossed deep across the weighty paper. He drops it in the top drawer of his desk. Slides the drawer shut. Inhales. Exhales. 

Shiro crosses, and then uncrosses his legs. Tells himself to Focus. He cracks his neck and begins the same paragraph on his datapad for the upteenth time: 

“...In addition to the aforementioned barriers impeding significant post-conflict development, the recent influx of displaced citizens from Syir and Ha’un (Ijan’s closest planetary neighbors; for a brief analysis of the shared history in this system, refer back to section 78.152.03) have placed increasing, and not insubstantial strain on all national resources and infrastructure. In response, the diplomatic consulate, that is to say, the…” 

Eyes half glazed, Shiro dutifully scrolls back to section 78.152.03 to try and decipher what the hell he’s meant to be gleaning from this report. His eyes glance to the notif bar hovering at the side of the screen. He swipes over to find that he has a missed call from the cardinal landing suite. Followed by an access notification from Hanger A. 

Shiro checks the time. 

“Shit.” The party selected to conference with the alien diplomats will be pinging him soon, and, 

The door to his private office decompresses. There’s only a handful of people in the entire universe who know the code required to unlock it. 

“Please tell me you can summarize the last eighty pages of this in the time it takes to break atmo,” Shiro says without taking his eyes from the datapad. 

“Shiro.” 

Shiro stops scrolling. His heart kicks---emotion crawling up his throat from those two syllables alone. His grip tightens on the datapad. That wasn’t Allura’s voice. He looks up from his work. 

And there, 

Standing in the doorway, 

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. 

Keith raises a hand in greeting, mouth twitching, bemused at Shiro’s obvious shock. “Surprise.” 

Shiro stands, steps forward from his desk, datapad and reports and impending meetings all but forgotten. Like being pulled into orbit. 

“Keith, what are you---I’m glad to see---I meant to…” Shiro stops, just short of arm’s length between them. He falters. “If I would have known you were coming, I would have at least been in the landing suite when you docked.” 

“It’s okay.” A small smile absolves Shiro of any responsibility. “Not like I don’t know my way around.” 

Keith tugs off his gloves, teeth nipping delicate at the tip of his middle finger to start to pull them from his hands. He folds the gloves, half sticks them in his belt, before touching his hair, like he might tuck a bit behind his ears. It’s longer now, still messy enough to fall across his forehead, but plaited in the back. It suits him. 

“You---” 

Keith steps forward into the office, meeting Shiro where he stands before Shiro has a chance to finish the thought. The words fade at the feeling of Keith---lean now, instead of thin, frame toned to lethal, perfect,  _ perfect _ \---in Shiro’s arms. One of Keith’s hands, his palm, comes up to rest on the back of Shiro’s neck as they embrace. Tucked just within the collar of Shiro’s uniform, his pinky finger dipping under the tee shirt Shiro wears underneath. The skin-to-skin contact there feels intimate. 

“How long has it been?” Shiro asks into Keith’s shoulder. 

Keith inhales against his neck. He seems to tighten his hold. “Over eight months. Thirty-six weeks.” 

Thirty-six weeks? It passed by like a blink of an eye. 

“But it felt like longer,” Keith says. He shifts and his hair tickles Shiro’s face. Shiro adjusts, reluctant to move his hand from where it fits so naturally against the small of Keith’s back. 

“Really? I’m sure you’ve been just as busy as we have, if not worse.” Irrational nervousness builds in his chest and makes Shiro fumble with his words. He untangles himself from Keith’s arms. “With the Blades. I know that this sector especially has been a challenge---”

“Shiro.” Keith makes a face, scrunching his nose, like,  _ we don’t have to talk about all that yet.  _

Shiro nods, deflating. “But regardless...it’s good to see you.” 

Keith ducks his head down, happy, clearly so, and Shiro takes a moment to gather his thoughts.  _ Get yourself together,  _ he tells himself.  _ Before you say something you’ll regret.  _

Almost a year they’ve been apart, just a few sparse messages and even sparser video calls between.  _ A screen could never succeed in capturing Keith anyways, not like this _ , Shiro decides, still fumbling at conversation. Keith is devastatingly gorgeous now, a whole head and shoulders taller than he was when they first met, years and galaxies ago. The senior Blade uniform has been modified to his own preferences, dark cloth sweeping over his shoulders, but cut short for ease of movement. It highlights the perfect way that his shoulders taper into his waist. His blade is holstered there, next to a pistol that Shiro has never seen before, but that he would wager Keith wields with deadly assurance should the need arise. The weapons are slung across his trim waist, marking the beginning of legs that go on for days in the seamless, skin tight undersuit. His boots rise to midcalf, and allow him to cross the threshold of Shiro’s office without a sound. The toes are still scuffed. 

“You’re here for the entire conference?” Shiro asks to fill weighty silence. 

Keith shrugs. He makes his way past Shiro, looking over with interest the contents of Shiro’s workspace: two stained coffee mugs, a crisp, new datapad outfitted with Pidge’s latest tech, an unfortunate plant that Colleen plunked down on the edge of Shiro’s desk to die. The hover chair dips down as Keith sits, legs spread wide, back slouched, comfortable. “We’ve been in this sector for the better part of a xeib,” 

He uses the Galran word for month, rather than the Altean, 

“But it’s been deadlock since we got here. Nobody wants to admit they’re wrong. Or struggling. Nobody wants to admit they need help.” Keith frowns, “It’s not like we can  _ force _ them to let us help.” 

The scowl on his face makes it obvious that’s exactly what Keith would like to do. Shiro hides a smile. He takes up a place close by, sitting against the edge of his desk, facing Keith. Close enough that he can watch the way Keith’s fingers drum over his knees in irritation when he gets heated. 

Shiro says, “Allura insists that this system is crucial for the Coalition. If we smooth over the politics here, whole galaxy should fall in line. People seem to agree.” 

Keith scoffs. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” He grins up at Shiro---Shiro’s heart flutters feeble in his chest at the expression directed at him. He does his best to ignore it as Keith continues, “People usually agree with things when the Queen of New Altea is the one saying them.” 

“It doesn’t hurt that she won’t take no for an answer.” 

Keith barks out a laugh---the one that comes unexpected, the one that never ceases to feel like a prize won---and Shiro can’t help but think,  _ how did I let this go? _

“I missed you,” he blurts out because he has to and because it’s been too long and because how, how could he have  _ ever _ let Keith go?

Keith’s mouth pulls closed, not quite a frown but close. His eyes drop down, even as he nods. “Me too. I missed you too.” The confident line of his shoulders slumps, just slightly, and he runs a thumb over his knuckles. “Shiro. About your message.” 

The comm line overhead pings, warning Shiro and the others that departure is in five. Shiro silently celebrates the excellent timing, belying a conversation he doesn’t want to have. “Keith. We’ll talk later.” Shiro promises. “For now, all I can worry about is whether I’m going to survive my first encounter with the Ijani leadership.” 

Keith’s mouth fails to even quirk at Shiro’s attempt at humor. He’s obviously off-put by Shiro’s evasive response, so much so that Shiro half expects Keith to push the subject. But he’s wrong there too. Keith rises from his seat with a nod and walks past Shiro out of the office. 

And Shiro doesn’t pull him close, gather him in, kiss him until the months between them and the words unsaid don’t matter---though he wants to. 

As they walk down the corridors of the Atlas, Keith’s steady strides match Shiro’s with ease, and they continue their conversation, but it’s impersonal---about the meetings, the latest Blade initiative, the ever evolving politics on Daibaazal. And up until they board the landing cruiser, Keith takes care to stay just out of reach. Chin held high, expression level, closed off. It’s familiar in all the wrong ways. 

*

_ “Hang on,” Keith makes his way down craggy walls a million miles from Earth, yet not entirely unfamiliar. “I’m coming Shiro.”  _

_ It’s by sheer force of will that Keith finds Shiro after they’ve crashed.  _

_ Keith’s life was first flipped upside down when he was eight, and instead of his dad picking him up from the after-school program, there was a woman named Cindy Mitchell who needed to see him in the office. The hallways of the school were dark because most everyone had already gone home for the day, and as he walked from the gym to the administrative office, Keith wondered if Pops was working a double for the second time this month.  _

_ Cindy Mitchell, always both her first and last name, like one word, one entity, cindymitchell, Cindy Mitchell was sorry. Cindy Mitchell was telling him that he wouldn’t be going home tonight, but it was okay, he would still have something to eat for supper and clean pajamas to sleep in, and everything would make more sense in the morning. Cindy Mitchell understood how hard this must be. Cindy Mitchell let it slip that she thought it was a shame that his mother wasn’t around, but nothing could be done about that. Cindy Mitchell was  _ very  _ sorry. Keith should hold her hand while they walk to her van because the parking lot could be dangerous. But Keith shouldn’t worry. Cindy Mitchell would be there for Keith every step of the way.  _

_ He saw her maybe twice, maybe three more times after that day.  _

_ Keith’s life was twisted and turned around and shredded from the inside out. He changed schools. He was placed in the foster system. Moved to a different state. Moved to another school in another state. Eventually returned to Arizona, though it no longer felt like home. No place did.  _

_ Traded hand-me-down jeans and always-too-big tee shirts for starchy Garrison orange and beige.  _

_ Learned to fly.  _

_ Left what he thought was the only future he could have because of a feeling in his gut and a gigantic aching hole in his chest.  _

_ By the time his life becomes aliens and intergalactic space flight in ships that look like lions, and princesses and dictators and ancient, raging wars, inexpressible power---Keith is pretty sure that his own determination is about as reliable as anything he’s gonna get. It’s gotten him this far.  _

_ So when he and Shiro get tossed out of a wormhole and the red lion is busted in the crash, and he’s separated from Shiro, Keith steadies his resolve and starts walking. He can still hear Shiro’s voice. They’ll get out of this. He’ll make sure.  _

_ He flies the black lion and fights off monsters and gets Shiro to safety because there’s nothing else to do but that. He can’t fail, will not fail, refuses to fail. It’s not just his life on the line, but Shiro’s too.  _

_ “How’s your wound?” Keith asks. Shiro is in pain but he won’t admit it. The Galran metal of Shiro’s right hand is catching in the sun as it flutters around his side, trying to trivialize the damage.  _

_ “Wound’s great.” Shiro grits out. He says something else, dry and harsh, officially adding his maimed side to the Things They Won’t Talk About.  _

_ Also on the list is Shiro’s illness. The time he spent as a captive of the Galra. What it means to be called Champion. The fact that Shiro hasn’t slept for more than four hours at a time since they boarded the Castleship. How Keith’s heartbeat still kicks up whenever Shiro happens to lay a kind hand on his shoulder, or lean close enough for Keith to smell---still somehow aircraft hanger mixed with aftershave and every good memory Keith took from his time at the Garrison.  _

_ Keith keeps himself close enough to Shiro to touch, though he doesn’t. Pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his hands around his ankles, like he used to do when he was a kid and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He promised himself that he would become someone whom Shiro can depend on, but this is another way to tell him that he’s not there yet.  _

_ The landscape here isn’t all that different from the desert Keith grew to know so well. A foreign star is sinking behind the horizon, casting gold and pink into the sky. Shiro’s breaths are shallow, but even at Keith’s side.  _

_ They don’t talk until Shiro does, and he says,  _

_ “Keith. If I don’t make it out of here, I want you to lead Voltron.”  _

_ The words are delivered with dry detachment, like they aren’t a finishing blow. Like they don’t cleave Keith in two and make him choke.  _

_ Keith swallows around cold panic and hot anger and a blank, hopeless feeling of inadequacy. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head, but Shiro’s eyes are closed. He’s feverish, Keith thinks, just barely lucid from the injury and resulting crash. “Don’t--don’t say that, Shiro,” Keith finally manages, but Shiro’s chin is drooping to his chest.  _

_ When a wormhole spins open in the sky above, Shiro finally meets Keith’s eyes before looking upward to watch the green lion break the atmosphere, a pin prick through the clouds. Keith helps him to his feet.  _

_ Keith closes his hand into a fist and thinks that even determination only goes so far.  _

*

It’s just shy of five a.m. and the gym on the deck above the officers’ barracks is deserted, save for Shiro. 

Shiro is flipping through the holo-terrain, deciding where to take his morning run. There’s the rolling hills of Karta, violet sky crackling and streaked like crushed velvet. The bronze sands of a beach on Ormay---he’s never been, but Allura reports that it’s even more beautiful in real life. Kru’duruxa has spotless city streets for an urban setting. Shiro bypasses all of these and flips to Earth, scrolling through scenes that truthfully aren’t much more familiar. It’s been a long time since he’s lived planetside. But he settles on something he’ll never forget. 

_ ‘Adjust room settings to match local climate?’ _ The holo-terrain queries. 

Shiro toggles to _ >no _ , scoffing under his breath. He’s nostalgic, not a masochist. Stretches complete, Shiro starts off through the dusty red land of the Sonoran desert. There’s the odd scruff of plant life, rocky cliffs in the distance, mountains further still, but for the most part it’s just wide open space and huge blue sky overhead. 

He runs and runs, until his heart rate is elevated and the sweat rolls down his back and he’s forgotten all about the folder in the top drawer of his desk. He runs long and hard enough to settle deep in the feeling of this body. His body. Just to linger in the physical, the present. (He’s almost used to it now---the absence of pain, the certainty of stamina and strength. But no matter how many days in this body pass, when Shiro places his feet on the floor as he gets out of bed, the first step is a hesitant one. Maybe it’ll always be that way.) 

He runs until his breath is heaving and his muscles ache and he can almost smell the hot, dry dust that billows around his feet. He loses himself there, in that, and it feels good. 

“You could be anywhere in the universe and  _ this _ is where you chose?”

Shiro starts, the thump of his heart in his ears as his pace skids. “Keith. I didn’t hear you come in,” 

The door slides closed and shimmers into nothing behind Keith, the holo-image seamless once more. 

Keith blinks at him, gaze dipping down from Shiro’s face then back up again. Commentary is unreadable in his dark eyes before they shift from Shiro to the landscape. He whistles slightly, turning with his whole body to take it all in. He kicks at a rock that isn’t there, sending pixels readjusting as the hologram accommodates. 

“Like you remember it?” Shiro asks. 

Keith tilts his head. “Not exactly.” 

He’s dressed to join Shiro for a workout, though they didn’t talk about it beforehand. Since he boarded the Atlas---at Shiro’s request, though Keith still doesn’t know why---they haven’t talked about anything really, because Shiro doesn’t want to, and Keith never presses the subject. 

“It’s too early,” Keith grumbles. 

Shiro smiles, helpless. He never manages to sleep in. “Old habits.” 

Keith rolls his eyes, gathers his hair into a knot on the top of his head. Baby hairs from the widow’s peak of his hairline immediately spring free from the hairband’s hold. Hair secure, Keith stretches. He closes his eyes, shifts from one foot to the other, one hand around his ankle, holding his leg taught to stretch his quads. The shorts he’s wearing are short, short enough for Shiro to see how the dark hair on his calves gives way to delicate sworls over his thighs. 

(The pale skin there is begging to be kissed, nipped, bruised, and Shiro has a lip caught between his teeth before he realizes himself and looks away.) 

“Ready?” Keith asks. 

Shiro gives him a thumbs up. 

Keith takes off, first at a light jog, then more strenuous, long legs overtaking Shiro’s pace as Shiro joins him. They run together, Keith at his side, quiet, measured breaths. The holo-terrain’s sun is stationary overhead, neither rising nor setting as the two of them continue onwards. The canyon, with all it’s caves and outcroppings, is to the left of them, like campus is to their back. Like Keith’s cabin is far in the distance. 

The miles and minutes pass like nothing, like how rain disappears into dry desert earth. 

Keith stays in the lead, but Shiro is the one who decides that they’ve had enough. He collapses down, chest heaving, and Keith slows to a stop. The Altean prosthetic bobbles in mid-air as Shiro reaches far to grab a hydration pouch. 

“You alright, old timer?” Keith teases, short of breath himself. Shiro gives him the finger and Keith laughs, airy, and knocks Shiro’s shoulder as he settles down on the ground next to him. Legs splayed out over the false dirt, arms behind him, face tilted up towards the sunshine. He watches Shiro out of the corner of his eye. Shiro retrieves another pouch and lobs it at Keith’s head---naturally he catches it with ease. One handed. He smirks. 

Shiro knocks Keith’s shoulder in retaliation, bubbly endorphins and so much of Keith’s skin flushed and on display making him moony and stupid. Keith doesn’t seem to mind. He’s solid weight against Shiro, playfully shoving him back, wiggling out of Shiro’s grip when they start to wrestle. He sprawls out on his back with a happy sigh that curls around a single word: “Shiro!” 

Tee shirt sticking to his skin---the dry heat would have wicked the moisture away, but here on his ship with her man-made climate, the sweat sticks---Shiro lays down on his back beside Keith. Keith doesn’t say anything, but Shiro can feel him settle, deep breaths in time with his own. 

Shiro keeps his eyes open, staring up into never changing blue. He’s selfish he thinks. 

*

_ The alcohol burns his skin and Keith flinches.  _

_ He’s vaguely aware of hushed words like ‘healing pod’ and ‘blood loss’ drifting over him, but nothing really registers beyond the feeling of Shiro’s hand over the inside of his wrist. He presses there and Keith pulls away, eyes closed, not understanding. Shiro makes a soothing sound and Keith stills. He lets Shiro place two fingers against his neck because Shiro’s other hand is a heavy weight on top of Keith’s thigh and so he must be safe. He’s sitting on a gurney in the medbay, now back again aboard the castleship. Shiro is standing in front of him; Shiro’s hand is on top of Keith’s thigh; he’s real, he’s here. Keith shudders, his head dropping against Shiro’s shoulder, and the heavy hand moves to Keith’s hip, holding him steady, like the thump of his pulse under Shiro’s fingers,  _

_ and Shiro’s here, he’s okay, he’s saying Keith’s name and Keith tries to nod,  _

_ Now that they’ve left the Marmoran base, now that the trial is over, now that the last dregs of adrenaline have been swept out of his veins, Keith feels himself crashing.  _ Adjust settings, _ he thinks to himself, hands twitching over controls that aren’t there. Descent too fast, pull back, nose up, don’t panic, reduce airspeed, he can handle this, he can handle th--- _

_ “We’re alright,” Shiro assures a hovering Coran. “We’re fine. I’ll let you know if we need anything, but for now a little space would be great.”  _

_ Hunk says something about space,  _ heh a little space we actually have a lot of space _ , and the edges of Keith’s mouth twitch up, despite everything.  _

_ “There he is,” Shiro says, catching the almost smile, seeing Keith like he somehow always seems to. Always has. “Stay with me, Keith, you’re back now, it’s over, stay with me,”  _

_ That sounds like a command so Keith tries to open his eyes, tries to tell Shiro he understands, but,  _

_ The lights of the medbay are too bright and Keith’s shoulder hurts like hell. All of him hurts like hell. He tries to nod but the motion makes him woozy. He feels like he might be sick.  _

_ Lance is saying something and it’s loud, and Pidge is clacking away at her laptop and Allura is noticeably absent, but Keith zeroes in on Shiro’s voice. It’s familiar and safe.  _

*

_ When Keith wakes up, it’s abrupt. Consciousness hits him and it’s violent; Keith is at once on his feet, ignoring the pain that shoots up his right arm, the soreness everywhere else. All is black and nothing and then suddenly his knife is in his hand and it’s not a knife it’s a sword and he’s Galra, he’s Galra, he--- _

_ “Woah, woah, Keith!” Shiro is shouting. His arm is activated, glowing purple even under the harsh lights of the Castleship’s medbay, and that’s worse than anything. “Watch it! Look at where you are, c’mon, come back to me,”  _

_ Keith feels the frantic beat of his heart, thundering, thundering under his skin. He gasps out a breath. He loosens the white-knuckled grip he has on his knife---sword--- _

_ His hands shake,  _

_ “Keith,”  _

_ The blade falls to the floor with a sob that sounds like it came from somebody else, but it didn’t, it came from him. And Keith feels Shiro gather him in his arms.  _

_ “Breathe for me,” Shiro says, close to Keith’s ear. Gentle. As if showing Keith how, he inhales, holding Keith tight enough that Keith can feel his chest rise.  _

_ Keith does as he’s told. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Again.  _

_ “You passed out,” Shiro tells him, hand on Keith’s back. “We were treating your wounds…”  _

_ There was the trial.  _

_ The waves of soldiers, ‘surrender the blade and the pain will cease,’ _

_ The visions.  _

_ Keith grits his teeth, clenching his jaw, fighting back against another sob. His dad. He was right there, it seemed so real. Keith opens his eyes now and sees only the clinical emptiness of the medbay. The three healing pods stand vacant, bathed in a soft blue light. The screens that cover the far wall are powered off. It’s quiet. The others have gone. _

_ Keith vaguely remembers Shiro’s arm around his waist, helping him back to the Castleship. He knows Kolivan is here, he knows there’s not much time,  _

_ “I’m sorry.” Keith tells him, face buried again against Shiro’s chest. His eyes sting, worse than his bruises, worse than his shoulder. “Shiro, I--I’m sorry.”  _

_ “You don’t have to apologize for passing out, that was quite the fight---unless that’s not what you’re apologizing for...Keith?”  _

_ ‘Then you’ve chosen to be alone,’ rings in Keith’s ears. He didn’t, he didn’t want that, he,  _ he didn’t---

_ Keith feels himself falling again, panic rising like acid in his throat. Shiro means everything to him and to Shiro, the Galra---Keith tries to step away, head bowed,  _

_ “Shiro. I’m Galra. I wanted to know, I thought---I wouldn’t stop, I kept---but---my dad, he said---my mom---I didn’t know. I swear, I didn---I’m Galra, I’m sorr---”  _

_ Shiro holds him tight, and Keith can feel the coolness of metal---Galran---his arm against Keith’s skin.  _

_ “Your arm.” Keith says, choked.  _

_ “Oh.” Shiro loosens his grip, understanding.  _

_ And Keith is at once terrified. He bites his lip. Lets go. Waits for the one person in whom he’s always placed his trust to pull away.  _

_ If anyone has suffered at the hands of the Galra, it’s Shiro. He won’t talk about it. Keith could never blame him. The Galra took his arm. They took more than that. And Keith is---Keith is--- _

_ “Oh, Keith.” Shiro says, and he doesn’t move away.  _

_ That’s his hand on the back of Keith’s head, metal cool against the flushed skin at the nape of Keith’s neck. Fingers careful as they tuck hair behind Keith’s ear.  _

_ Keith stills as he feels Shiro press a kiss to the top of his head. Slow, gentle. Lingering. Quiet. Until he says, “You did so well, Keith. I saw you fight. All of it. You didn’t give up.”  _

_ Keith’s breath hitches.  _

_ “I remember the arena.” Shiro says, quiet, thoughtful. His hand is still heavy at the base of Keith’s skull. “More than I’d like to admit, actually. I remember the fighting. And. After. After the fighting.” He pauses. Keith can hear him swallow. Pushing back bad memories.“But, Keith. The apology you’re trying to give is not one that I need.” Shiro holds him a little closer. “And it is not one that you owe.”  _

_ Keith shakes his head. Shiro holds him, and Keith lets himself steady there, in those words. Feels his racing pulse begin to slow with the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest.  _

_ “You said it yourself,” Shiro says, a little later, his hand finally dropping from Keith’s hair to the back of his arm. Like he’s reluctant to let go. “You know who you are.”  _

_ “Shiro.”  _

_ Keith lets himself linger there, in the confines of Shiro’s arms. The way his hands feel like lazy Sunday afternoons at the Garrison. Take-out, movies when Keith should be studying. A door that’s never shut. Hoverbike races. Sunsets. The feeling of being seen. For who he is. For what he could be.  _

_ Keith is Galra.  _

_ The world tilts but Shiro is his axis.  _

*

Almost two varga after the day’s final meeting was  _ supposed  _ to be over, Shiro sends Allura a private message. 

>>>mind if I drop by tonight?

She receives the message across the table from him, her attention hardly seeming to waver from the jowl-y Ijani diplomat who is effectively filibustering their third attempt at introducing a peacekeeping document that would allow this system to join the coalition. 

“You certainly do make salient points, Sa Ran-un,” Allura commends, her left hand deftly typing out a response to Shiro under the table, while she speaks to the leaders gathered, “Which is precisely why we have addressed this concern  _ within _ the treaty,” 

<<<business or personal?

The alien blusters, and immediately begins talking over Allura, another tangent begun. A collective, silent sigh heaves throughout the room. 

>>>personal

Shiro grimaces and then adds, 

>>>or not. I’m willing to do just about anything besides what we’re doing right now actually 

<<<thank the quiznaking ANCIENTS 

“Esteemed Sa Junn, Sa Hilum.” Allura stands. Her comm gets slipped inside the pocket of her gown with enough grace that no one would ever question it being out in the first place. She clasps her hands. The room falls silent, although Ran-un is so annoyed at being cut off that his snout twitches. “And Sa Ran-un. On behalf of all the members of the Coalition---spread throughout this galaxy and many others---I thank you for your  _ considerable  _ input today. Alteans have a saying: ‘Peace blooms auroral outside walls where politics roar.’ Perhaps an accord can be reached between now and our closing statements tomorrow morning.” 

There’s huffs from the Syiri and Ha’un sides of the table, but Allura ignores them with all the regality of her station. “I trust you all will have a productive,  _ peaceful _ evening. And that tomorrow will bring with it a  _ conclusive _ end to our lengthy discussion today.” 

There’s nods and a few polite snuffles from the aliens with snouts. Allura walks out of the conference with her back straight and her expression placid. The picture of a queen. 

*

“Peace blooms auroral?” Shiro asks, half a smile on his face as he settles down on the white sofa in Allura and Lance’s living quarters. 

She snorts. “I’m Altean and I said it. I believe that means it’s an Altean saying, does it not?” 

“Spoken like a true politician,” Shiro comments, dry. 

Allura giggles. “I’m quite good, aren’t I?” 

It’s Shiro’s turn to snort. But, yes. She is. 

“Oh!” Her head lifts from the back of the couch. “One bright spot in this horribly monotonous day,” she leaps up, all girlish excitement. “I received a package!” 

Shiro watches as Allura skips to the kitchen, shoes off underneath her skirts, long hair now twisted into a bun instead of styled. She retrieves the bottle from the countertop, (not without first affectionately poking the belly of one of her mice,) and brings it over to Shiro. When she sits back down beside him, it’s close enough that Shiro is within the pleasant cloud of her floral perfume. She presents the bottle to him with pride. Her latest treasure. 

“It’s just lovely, don’t you think?” 

The bottle is blue, lightest blue, with what appear to be flowers encased within the material of which it’s made. It’s deceptively heavy for its size, enough that Shiro holds it with both hands, careful not to break it or spill. Definitely a unique addition to Allura’s ever growing collection. While Shiro admires it, as much as he can, Allura busies herself with finding two suitable glasses. She pours out a flute for herself and for Shiro, passing it to him with a smile. “Let’s have a tasting, shall we?” The liquor within is a rosey amber and smells strong.

It’s good. Shiro sips and smiles---more at Allura’s puckered lips as she closes her eyes and indulges in her favorite hobby---than actually from the wine. 

“It’s sweet,” he comments, settling back into the cushions. “Maybe too sweet for me.” 

“Hmmm,” Allura muses. She takes another sip. “No. I don’t think so. Not too sweet.” Her brow furrows, just slightly. She smacks her hand down on the cushions between herself and Shiro. “But today! That pompous! Arrogant! Ran-un is as much of a leader as a Remulian kandermop, if you ask me, I could not  _ believe _ \---”

Shiro grins and starts to feel himself relax. 

They’re still aboard his ship, but there’s something about Allura and Lance’s quarters that just feels more home-y than his own, militaristically bland space. There’s photos on the walls---of the paladins, of Coran, of Lance’s family, of Allura and Lance’s wedding, their honeymoon. There’s always at least one vase of fresh flowers---Shiro knows that Lance brings them home to her at least once a movement (it’s a habit that’s gotten him into trouble with both alien wildlife as well as Colleen Holt). There’s a pleasant, lived in kind of mess---Allura’s datapad and notes strewn over the table, next to Lance’s video game controllers, throw pillows and blankets in excess. The smell of food in their kitchenette and leftovers in the fridge and sticky-notes on the cabinet above the coffee maker and teapot. 

“Keith was right to lead the landing crew and review things planetside,” Shiro agrees, wistful, in response to Allura’s rant about the less than spectacular hospitality of their hosts. “The meetings have been excruciating. Today was terrible.” 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing as soon as there’s a pause. Shiro tries to backtrack, but a smile is already making its honeyed way across Allura’s pink pout. “Speaking of Keith,” 

“We weren’t,” Shiro remarks, 

Allura tops off his glass with another splash of wine. “Have you spoken with him regarding the letter from Commander Tylor?” 

“Oh because between the interplanetary diplomacy and commanding a class A warship, I’ve had plenty of time for heart-to-hearts, huh?” Shiro drawls, shifting in his seat. He knows he’s being churlish and that Allura wants the best for him. But she also loves to gossip. 

Point proven: “A little mousey told me that you two have been running together every morning since he boarded.” 

“By ‘little mousey’ do you mean an actual mouse, or Lance.” Shiro asks, unamused. 

Allura hums and looks to the side. Lance then. 

“Lance---” 

“That’s the name, don’t wear it out,” Lance singsongs, busting through their door at the exact wrong time. His boots are stained bright yellow with the moss that blankets almost all of planet Ijan. Allura motions him back, telling him to take them off at the door so he doesn’t track it all over their apartment. 

Lance obeys, stepping out of his boots with far more wobbling and windmilling of arms than is strictly necessary. Once removed, he trots over the sofa, all wide smile and relaxed shoulders. He bends over the couch and smacks a kiss over Allura’s mouth. “Hiya babe. Hey Shiro. How’d it go today?” 

“Horrible. Naturally it’ll work out by tomorrow, I’m sure.” Allura waves a hand, “But presently we were discussing the lack of communication,” 

“Ah, communication,” Lance muses, as if wise, 

Allura continues, “The lack of communication between my very own black paladins,” she says, hand over her heart. “Is dire. I was simply saying,” 

“You weren’t,” Shiro mutters, 

Lance vaults over the back of the couch and plops himself down. He settles, elbows on his knees, and gives Shiro what he probably thinks is a very somber, appraising look. (It’s not). “You know, for someone who really seems like he’s got his shit together, you’re not very honest with yourself, man,” he declares. 

Shiro give Lance a look and Lance balks. He immediately starts running his mouth, as if to dig himself out, 

“I mean, what I’m sayin’ is, at least Keith is honest. Brutally honest. Dude is always gonna tell you what he thinks. Any time.” 

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying something positive about Keith,” 

“Yeah well. Don’t tell him. It’ll just go to his head. And his head’s got enough issues as is, what with his ever lengthening mullet and also,” Lance makes a vague gesture and wrinkles his nose, “His face.” 

Shiro closes his eyes. 

“Plus, you know, he’s always got his jaw clenched. Probably gets hella headaches. Probably has his ass clenched too.  _ Jesus Christ, _ can’t imagine that’s good for digestion, he probably,” 

“Okay Lance.” Shiro cuts him off. “That’s enough.” He looks at Allura, who is smiling from behind her wine glass. “From both of you.” 

“Yeah. Anyways.” Lance leans across Allura to give Shiro a pat on the knee. “Stop being in denial.” 

Shiro just looks at him. 

Lance blanches. He gets up and waves his arms towards the bedroom. “Well! Now that we’ve got that all settled! I need to get cleaned up, because  _ woooo boy _ that planet? All that weird-ass yellow gunk everywhere? Not the best thing for these pores, I’ll tell you what. Annnnyways, good talk Shiro, yep, and I definitely didn’t say anything about you to Keith today while we were tromping around Planet Piss-land together, soooo NOPE don’t even worry about that, okay, bye!!!” 

Shiro massages his temples. “Lance,” 

He’s already gone. 

Allura has her lips pressed together and she’s definitely holding back a laugh. Shiro empties his wine glass. 

*

Later, 

The halls seem far too wide as Shiro makes his way back to his quarters. He doesn’t stumble or sway, but it does take longer to reach than it should. Feels like he’s walking through mud almost, the way his feet are heavy. (Damn Alteans and their freakishly robust metabolism of alcohol! He should know better than to drink with Allura. Especially after what happened on Kannmaz). 

But Shiro manages to find his door eventually; it’s the one at the very bow, the largest and most luxurious room of the ship. He manages to unlock the entry code on the third try, and doesn’t trip when he steps inside. Inside the captain’s quarters, his apartment, where his bedroom is dark and mostly empty and every single thing is exactly where he left it. He falls into bed, mussing crisp hospital corners, four inches from pillow to fold, sheets pulled taught the way they’re supposed to be. His uniform will be wrinkled if he falls asleep like this, so he won’t. 

But for now the walls are spinning like the thoughts in his head, and he has to close his eyes.

*

_ The rap of Keith’s footsteps fall angry and echoing once the hangar doors have slid shut behind him.  _

_ No one follows. _

_ Why would they after he’s blown up at them for the third time in as many days? This time it was about something as simple as a new schedule for running drills, but Keith just couldn’t restrain his temper. There’s  _ no good reason  _ to alter the pattern they’ve always used. Shiro’s reminded them a million times that getting sloppy with the basics just leads to bigger mistakes. Shiro would have--- _

_ Shiro isn’t here. Keith sets his jaw, quickens his pace. It’s supposed to be up to Keith to lead.  _

_ He can’t.  _

_ He can’t act like nothing is wrong,  _

_ He can’t act like Shiro is just  _ gone _ and that’s  _ fine _ , and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.  _

_ He can’t move on, he can’t,  _

_ If he closes his eyes he can see Hunk twisting his hands, and Pidge’s open disdain, Lance’s furrowed brow, Allura’s mouth pressed together in a line...his team.  _

_ They’re depending on him.  _

_ How can anyone be depending on him when he can’t even keep one person---the most important person---safe? _

_ “If anything happens to me, I want you to lead Voltron.”  _

_ No.  _

_ No Shiro. I can’t.  _

_ Please don’t ask this of me, please,  _ I can’t. 

_ Keith doesn’t close his eyes. He keeps them on his boots, head down, fists tight, pace brisk, not to the training hall,  _

_ Not where he and Shiro would often spar after the others had called it quits. Just the two of them. Especially when they first arrived on the castleship, Keith didn’t have much luck in getting to know the others. He tried, but he’d never been good at social niceties, and his time in the desert seemed to have made it worse. Shiro understood his need for action over words, maybe even shared it.  _

_ They sparred together everyday. Sometimes against the bots. Sometimes, the best times, against each other.  _

_ Keith will never forget the first time he pinned Shiro. Having Shiro laid out flat on his back on the sparring mat. Keith above him, body poised over his. Shiro’s hand---his human hand---caught on the mat under his grip. He can’t forget the carnality of it, the rise and fall of Shiro’s broad chest. The jump of his adam’s apple. The muscles in Keith’s thighs quivering at the exertion from holding the pose, thighs splayed wide, wide over Shiro. The glint of competition in Shiro’s eyes overtaken with something smokier. Pupils blown, black widening over gray in his eyes. _

_ The perspiration on the back of Keith’s neck, the cotton-y feeling in his mouth.  _

_ He felt whole. He felt equal. _

_ Keith can’t go to the training deck, not when it has memories like that,  _

_ A memory which Keith has replayed a thousand times over: Water beating down on his shoulders, his hands on himself, pumping in time to heavy breaths, quiet, “FuckfuckfuckShi-ro,” grit out from clenched teeth. Replaying the feel of Shiro’s body, hot and solid between his legs. Huge underneath him. _

_ A memory he revisited late at night, against sheets oppressively hot. Head tilted back, hand down his boxers, eyes squeezed shut. Twisting against the sheets, fucking himself on fingers that he knows are far more slender than the ones he wants.  _

_ Chasing something he’ll never have.  _

_ Keith clenches his fists.  _

_ Shiro’s kind touch, his focus on Keith---pushing him to his limit, forever coaxing the best out of him. The two of them skin-on-skin in the training deck, laughing together late at night in the common room, working together on planets the names of which they can’t even pronounce, overcoming anything. Together. Closer than any other relationship that Keith has ever known.  _

_ He can’t go to the training deck.  _

_ He can’t go back to his room.  _

_ Not when the others will no doubt come looking for him. Lance probably. He’s trying, Keith knows, now that Shiro is gone.  _

_ Lance is smarter than he lets on---they’re in a war and Keith is a shit leader and he’s terrified. Keith can see it.  _

_ ‘Hey man,’ the way Lance’s eyes shift to the side, then back to Keith. Trying for a smile.  _

_ He thinks that Keith is going to get them all killed, maybe.  _

_ He’ll say something in the forced way that he does, the way that makes Keith feel like he’s drowning. And though Lance’s heart might be in the right place, he and the others just don’t understand.  _

_ The hangar is huge and Keith’s footsteps echo up into the furthest reaches of the room, above the black lion, out into nothingness.  _

_ He steps into her shadow and he feels cold.  _

_ “I can’t,” Keith says to no one, no one at all, stumbling up the ramp into the black lion. She chose  _ him, _ like Shiro did, and Keith is sick with it. Sick with the memories of Shiro, the blankness of where Shiro should be, but isn’t.  _

_ The door closes behind him, leaving Keith in darkness. The dash doesn’t light. Shiro’s lion, no, his lion, knows he’s in no frame of mind to fly. He should be---he should be out there, looking for Shiro. When he was in the desert, he didn’t stop searching. Shiro was out there. Keith was determined to find him, even if it meant searching on foot, day after day. Grief would have eaten him up, chewed through his bones and his blood, made him rot, made him fade. Grief would have left him with nothing so he didn’t give it that.  _

I will never give up on you, 

_ The dark of the cockpit is heavy over him, a condemnation left unsaid.  _

_ “I can’t,” he repeats, like a mantra, like a prayer. “I can’t, I can’t,”  _

_ “I can’t do this, Shiro,” Keith sinks to the floor, not in the pilot’s seat, not when it seems so big and so empty.  _

_ Keith sinks to the floor, his back against the pilot’s seat. He has his head in his hands but tears don’t fall. The floor is icy cold and it seems to crawl through him, pull him down into that endless dark. His knife is uncomfortable where it lies against his back; in one frenzied motion, he unclips it from its holster and flings it across the cockpit. The blade clatters where it lands and the sound trills sharp and cruel against the stillness.  _

_ He is alone.  _

_ “I miss you,” Keith says, voice rasping hoarse from shouting earlier. Crying earlier still. “You were gone before, but I think this....this is worse.”  _

_ He thinks of nights spent alone, cool air on his face, lost, lost, under endless sky.  _

_ The way fire burned in his chest then, vast and cosmic, cataclysmic, infinite.  _

_ It still burns, but,  _

_ Even the stars had seemed friendlier than this.  _

_ * _

‘Can’t’ _ is not an option.  _

_ The next day, Keith begins to search. This time, among the stars, instead of underneath them.  _

*

Almost forty minutes before he promised, Shiro clenches his fist and raps Altean metal against Keith’s doorframe. 

He’s early. 

He’s nervous. 

The door doesn’t open immediately---not Keith’s fault, considering the time. Shiro pulls out his comm and checks it, even though he expressly told the bridge crew that he has tonight off. As expected, no new messages. (Just like there were no new messages the last time he checked it, approximately...five ticks ago. And the time before that, just a couple minutes prior. Shiro fidgets a moment more, until the screen fades to black, and he slides it back in his pocket.) 

He stands up straight, counts, tells himself on five, he’ll knock again. 

One one thousand, 

Two one thousand, 

The door to Keith’s apartment slides open. 

Keith is not wearing a shirt. 

Shiro momentarily loses the ability to form words. Keith is, 

Keith is, 

He’s in dark wash jeans---close fitting, but not as tight as he used to wear them as a teen---white socks with a line of purpleblue over the toes and at the heel. His hair is fixed into a braid at the back of his neck, but obviously still damp. 

Shiro manages to find his voice: “K-keith! Keith, I’m---I’m early.” 

Keith’s eyebrow ticks up and he smirks, “A little, yeah. It’s okay.” 

He motions for Shiro to come in, and Shiro dutifully follows. 

Shiro doesn’t need to look around---afterall, they are on his ship. 

Keith’s room is a mirror of his own quarters, just slightly smaller. It’s not lived in; Keith will always have a room on the Atlas, so long as Shiro is at her helm, but Keith is rarely aboard these days. He lives on his own ship, an elegant little thing called Ariv,  _ star _ in Galran. The Ariv might be smaller than Atlas, but what she lacks in size, she makes up for in her specs. Elegantly designed, stealthy and powerful, and, above all, fast. It helps that nobody in the universe could fly her like Keith does. She’s perfect for the leader of the Blades. 

Shiro looks around anyways, studying the blank walls and narrow couch as if they’re of supreme interest---anything to distract from the small of Keith’s back, bare, the pretty dimples begging to be touched above Keith’s ass. 

(And, no, he’s not thinking about how it would feel to settle his hands on Keith’s hips, how his shower-warm skin would feel under Shiro’s human hand, how narrow his waist would feel under Shiro’s prosthetic,) 

Shiro trains his eyes on blank walls and clean gray floors, so as not to focus on the the wisps of hair on Keith’s chest, dark that trails into thicker, lush hair over his stomach, the way that dark hair trails from his abs down past the top of his jeans. 

“Uh. Make yourself at home, I guess?” Keith jokes, turning to walk through the bedroom back into the bathroom, where he was clearly in the process of getting ready. 

“I---” 

Shiro’s skin prickles like static electricity and suddenly he’s being boofed in the chest by one very large, very slobbery cosmic monster. He teeters dangerously, but manages to wrap the overgrown puppy into a hug  _ and  _ keep himself upright. 

“Kosmo!” 

She’s huge now, big enough to place her paws (though they can’t exactly be called paws, per se, not with her three claws instead of toes) on Shiro’s shoulders with ease. He rubs her fluffy cheeks. 

“She’ll shed all over you!” Keith calls from the bathroom. 

“Aww!!” Shiro scratches behind her ears and under her chin. “Never! Don’t listen to him, you won’t! I know you won’t!” His faith is immediately rewarded---the massive beast flops down on her back, tail wagging so hard that her whole bottom half goes with it. She wants a tummy rub. “Good girl!” Shiro bends down, cooing and scratching at her floof. 

When he stands, there is very noticeable blue fur all down the front of his pullover. Shiro chuckles, attempting to clean himself off. He wanders back into the bedroom---Keith’s armor is thrown over a chair, his boots are near the door. (There’s no hint of yellow moss on them from his time planetside, but Shiro isn’t surprised. Keith is fastidious about taking care of his things. He’s always been that way.) 

Keith doesn’t live here, not really, so the rest of his quarters  _ should _ be empty. But, Keith has always been a bit of pack-rat, and so there’s various odds and ends on the bookshelves, along with Keith’s datapad and gear. Shiro spies a slew of little trinkets over the dresser--- rocks, scraps of metal, an interesting, brightly colored thing that might be some kind of toy, though Shiro couldn’t say exactly. Tacked to the wall close to his bedside, there’s other mementos, bits of paper: a poster from the horrific Voltron show, a copy of the menu Hunk had on the opening night of his restaurant, Keith’s seating placard from Allura and Lance’s wedding, a handwritten note from Keith’s mom, barely legible. Shiro is surprised to see a photo of himself there. He leans forward, trying to place the time it was taken; it’s a photo from his Garrison days, likely taken in all the hype surrounding the Kerberos mission. Shiro can’t recall exactly when. Keith must have cut it out from a magazine or a pamphlet of some sort, before the mission’s failure. It’s creased and worn, like it’s been folded. 

“Almost ready!” Keith calls out. 

“Take your time, Keith, I’m in no hurry.” Shiro reminds him. He stands up straight, stops being nosey. “My crew know that I…” 

He trails off, seeing Keith in front of the sink. Under the harsh light of the bathroom, a lavender mark stands out against the pale of Keith’s skin. Shiro speaks very little Galran, and he can read even less, but the symbol on Keith’s shoulder blade is unmistakable. It’s the same one that is etched onto the hilt of Keith’s heirloom knife. 

“You got a tattoo?” Shiro sputters. 

Automatically, Keith reaches over his back and touches the edge of it. He blinks like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. Yeah. Kinda? It’s not ink, but like, quintessence marking. We all got them. It was Ezor’s idea.”

Shiro wants to ask who is ‘we’ and when, and what else have I missed, what else don’t I know, can I touch, but instead he says. “Huh.” 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “She probably just wanted to see me in pain.” He shrugs like, _ we’re still working on that.  _ “Wasn’t that bad though.” 

He swishes a razor blade into the sinkful of sudsy water. Eyes on his reflection, Keith leans forward, running the blade through the last remnants of shaving cream on his face. He’s confident with it, the razor, moving it over his skin with the same fluid grace and assurance that he does everything else. He tilts his head slightly, drawing out the beautiful line of his neck, paying special mind to the raised skin of the scar running down his cheek. 

Shiro swallows. 

Keith’s eyes flick forward to catch Shiro’s in the mirror. There’s a gentle, teasing lilt to his voice when he says, “Not all of us look good with stubble.” 

“Oh...” Shiro’s human hand goes to his chin without thinking, running the back of his fingers against his cheek. “Oh. You like it?” 

Keith snorts. “Yeah, Shiro. ‘Course I do.” 

Shiro fumbles at the compliment, feels the tips of his ears get hot, but Keith is merciful enough not to point it out if he notices. 

Smooth shaven, Keith finishes what’s left of his routine with practiced efficiency, until he slides open the door of his closet. Although there isn’t an abundance to choose from, Keith visibly hesitates. He sneaks a look towards Shiro, just for a moment, then presses his lips together. He rummages and pulls out a black sweater. 

“This alright? I don’t know where we’re going so…” 

Shiro nods. “It’s great, Keith.” 

Keith nods, smile passing over his lips just before he tugs the sweater over his head. It’s a mockneck, and he has to pull his hair out of the collar to get it settled. He doesn’t fuss with anything after that, just checks that his knife is concealed, and steps into his boots. Ready to go. He looks…

He looks like everything Shiro could ever want. 

Conversation flows easily as they walk side-by-side to the cruiser Shiro set aside for this evening. 

They board, Keith taking his place in the co-pilot’s seat next to Shiro, natural as anything. Shiro punches in the codes to let the crew ready the launch bay, adjusts their headings, all while Keith’s hands move over the dash in time with his own. Even though the flight prep routine should be fairly standard, every pilot has their own idiosyncrasies in how they check off their mental list. As Keith’s hands move in perfect sync with his own, Shiro realizes that they do things exactly the same way. It takes him a moment to realize the reason why: he was the one who taught Keith this. 

The thought gives Shiro pause. His hands falter over the myriad of screens, buttons, switches. He’s thinking about solemn eyes trained on him, the bright, quiet way Keith listened---smart and caustic and  _ hungry. _ Amazing. Even then. 

Shiro is pulled out of his thoughts as the low pulsing roar of engines primed is punctuated by a notification from his flight crew: _ ‘Atlas to cruiser alpha-zero-zero-one, Captain, you are clear for take-off.’ _

“Ready, Captain?” Keith asks, at his side. He tilts his head, a private joke between them in the way that one eyebrow lifts. 

_ As I’ll ever be, _ Shiro thinks, pushing the craft forward. 

The Atlas opens to the wide expanse of space, and together, Shiro and Keith slip free.

*


	2. it feels permanent to me

*

Dinner is in the exact sort of place that Shiro knew Keith would love. 

It’s in a hole-in-the-wall kind of restaurant, not fancy, on a swap-moon far removed from Zarkon and his ilk, even when the Empire was at its most powerful. The atmosphere of the place is casual without being  _ too _ rowdy; quiet enough to talk, loud enough to not be overheard. There’s a huge spear-like weapon mounted over the bar which Keith eyes with interest as they walk to their table. 

Their waiter is rude enough for them to know that they are definitely _not_ recognized as the former black paladins of Voltron. Or as the commander of the infamous Atlas and the equally imposing leader of the Blades. The waiter is snide as he takes their order, and almost sneers when he brings out their first pitcher of the closest approximation this planet has to beer. Keith grins as soon as the waiter’s back is turned. “Jackass,” he hisses to Shiro, and the dark edge of his smile turns delighted when Shiro gives the alien the finger in return. 

When their food arrives and it’s fried and salty (and far different in nutritional profile than what the two of them typically eat), Keith’s eyes get comically wide. Practically drooling, he wastes no time in digging in, his fingertips soon messy enough that he should be worried about staining his fingerless gloves. He isn’t. 

Shiro is relaxed too, though he’s never been able to match Keith’s monstrous pace when it comes to consuming junk food. Somewhere between Keith’s second and third helping, Shiro throws in the towel.

Belly full and heart happy, he makes the most of their time together and starts regaling Keith with some of the more amusing moments of the last few months: 

Like the time they accidentally left Lance on Sclul-4 because Allura thought he was on the bridge and Shiro thought he was flying recon. The former blue-turned-red paladin was stranded for a whopping 72 hours before they realized their mistake. 

“Was the planet hostile?” Keith asks, mouth smeared with hot sauce and slightly ajar, humor glimmering in his dark eyes. 

“As a teddy bear,” Shiro answers. He grimaces, remembering the months of overly dramatic emotional crises that followed. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about this yet. He brought it up at  _ every single opportunity _ for about three phoebs.” 

Keith snorts. “I bet he did.” 

Or the time Coran caused an interplanetary incident by mistakenly propositioning the king in system Nminck. It took three days and seven very terse meetings for those aliens to trust the motives of the Coalition, but now Coran tells the story with relish. He was ‘as red as a hereslimer on a hot day in Algast,’ when he realized what he had done. So he says. 

Keith chuckles. 

Shiro tells him also about the time a particularly plucky new recruit tried to best him in a friendly race in the deep-space cutters. He thought he’d give himself an edge against the captain by tampering with the fuselage connectors in Shiro’s ship. 

“You’re not serious,” Keith practically growls, swiping the last bit of hot sauce off his plate and slipping his index finger his mouth. He smacks his lips, just a little, more focused on Shiro’s anecdote than table manners. 

“Deadly,” Shiro says, with gravity. “And afterwards, it just so happened that the ensign won the lottery for shipwide dish duty. Four weeks in a row.” He smirks at Keith. “By pure coincidence, of course. And I still won the race.” 

Keith thumps one hand on the table and throws back his head and laughs. 

The sound makes Shiro’s heart jump tight in his chest. He loves that sound. 

He has to tell him. 

“So, Keith.” Shiro falters. He rearranges the cutlery over the table for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

Keith looks at him, across the narrow table. His face is flushed and his eyes look bright, even under the dim lights. Shiro can see his name on Keith’s lips before the syllables drop.

Keith is everything to him. 

“About,” Shiro clears his throat. “About why I contacted you. Requested that you meet me in this system. No---believe it or not, it was not just to have you suffer through negotiations with Ijani diplomats, that was a bonus.” 

Keith’s mouth quirks up into a half smile.

Shiro opens his comm before he loses his nerve. He has a digital copy of the letter in the top drawer of his desk---the document that’s been weighing on his mind for the better part of a phoeb now. He brings it to full screen, opening the document to the beginning, 

_ ‘Admiral Shirogane Takashi, it is my great pleasure to inform you, on behalf of the United States Space Federation, and in conjunction with...’ _

And, before he loses his nerve, Shiro slides the comm across the table to Keith. 

Keith frowns, taking it. The frown deepens as he reads, scrolling down, skimming through the contents. He shakes his head. “Shiro. This is. I don’t---I don’t understand.” 

“Do you.” Shiro wets his lips. “Do you know who Commander George Tylor is?” 

He doesn’t expect Keith to know the name, even if it is of the highest ranking individual in the United States Air and Space Force. There was a photo of him, in full military regalia, on the wall behind Iverson’s desk. But that was a lifetime ago. For both of them. 

Keith shakes his head. He sets Shiro’s comm down on the table, and Shiro sees him run a thumb over his knuckles before he ducks his hands into his lap and out of sight. 

“It’s a promotion.” Shiro says. Tired. Suddenly exhausted with it all. “I’m going to be the head of the newly formed Interplanetary Exploration and Home Defense Program.” He inhales, rattling off the details straight from the document that he’s read so many times: “The position requires that I reside on Earth. Although, there will be potential for off world interfacing, depending on the---”

“Earth? What? They’re giving you a desk job?” Keith interrupts. “ _ You _ ? Shiro, what about the Atlas? What about---” 

“She’ll be in good hands,” Shiro says, “They’ve assured me that I will be on the board of those individuals interviewing and helping to select her next cap---” 

“Next captain? There can’t be anyon---Shiro.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. He looks up, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this.” 

“Keith---” Shiro starts, but he pauses as Keith raises a hand. Shiro tells himself that the tremor he sees there is a trick of the light. 

“Just.” Keith bites his lip. “Just give me a minute. Okay?” 

Shiro nods. He studies the tabletop, the way a crack has split the wood. It’s been filled with resin and smoothed over, like it never happened at all. 

He looks up when he hears Keith’s breath hitch. 

He sees Keith’s mouth work before he sets his jaw. His eyes are cast down, brows pulled close together in a frown.

No. This isn’t what Shiro wants. 

“Keith, I---” 

“This is a goodbye dinner.” Keith states. Like a realization. Quiet. Small. It’s devastating. The way he blinks, doesn’t look into Shiro’s face. He’s hurt. Unmistakably. 

Shiro feels something in him break, at Keith’s expression. At having been the cause. 

“This---I thought.” Keith shakes his head, corners of his mouth turned down. He swallows, his shoulders are tense, his jaw still set. He smiles, closed mouth, and lifts his chin, meeting Shiro’s eyes. “You contacted me, after all this time. To say goodbye. To leave.” 

Shiro’s hands clench, in an effort to prevent them from reaching across the table and taking Keith’s. To hold him close. 

To soothe, to comfort. 

To have. 

Shiro clears his throat. “I’ll still…” 

Keith’s voice is dull. “We won’t even be in the same galaxy. Shiro. I  _ know _ you. You’ll give eighty hours a week to this job. More. You’ll give it everything. You’ll…” he trails off. 

“It’s a promotion. An _ achievement _ ,” Shiro says, and it comes out harsher than he means. 

“An achievement?” Keith says, and it’s like ice, the way his voice cracks. Biting cold. “Shiro. We just ended a war that lasted for more than 500 years before we even knew about it. Hell, we didn’t end it---we  _ won _ it. Everyone in the goddamn galaxy knows our names. What the  _ fuck  _ do you need an achievement for?” 

“I’m not  _ happy, _ Keith,” Shiro bursts out. Louder than he means to be, and maybe the tables next to them look their way, but Shiro can’t be bothered to care. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it. How lost he feels. How it is to have experienced the vastness of everything, of  _ nothing _ , in vivid detail, and somehow keep living. How he can’t sleep, some nights, most nights, because the dark feels like falling outside of time and space, and he has to stay tethered to the body he’s been given. Because it’s a second chance, a miracle, a gift, and  _ fuck _ if he’ll let it slip through his fingers. 

He doesn’t know how to explain that  _ he never expected to live this long. _ That he was given an unimaginable diagnosis at fifteen and everyone, every single person around him accepted it as fact, and Shiro refused. He was determined to leave a mark---to achieve. To fly. He never thought he would see twenty-five. Never thirty. But he found it in himself to try and he fought it. He fought it, he fought it even though it was a fight he would lose, 

And he fought so many hopeless battles against people and creatures he didn’t even have the words to name. He was brave. He had to be brave. He was torn apart. All the pieces of himself that he lost, and still, he kept moving forward. Unrecognizable, unrelenting. And he kept fighting, 

But he didn’t expect to  _ live _ , even though he wanted to, god, he  _ wanted  _ to. 

He wanted to live, wanted it with every single part of him, and now that he can, he doesn’t know how. 

He doesn’t know how to go forward when there’s nothing to fight against. When the darkness behind his eyes brings nightmares, or worse, brings  _ nothing. _ When the ever encroaching expiration date comes and goes, passes him by, what is left? How can he breathe easy when each breath brings with it the uncanny feeling that it wasn’t  _ meant _ for him; that these aren’t his lungs, this isn’t his life. How can it be, when it feels like so much emptiness? 

Now there’s only a void in front of him, and once again, Shiro is alone against it. How can Shiro face that, unless it is to  _ achieve--- _

_ Something.  _ Anything. 

Shiro never hungered for power, he never cared to move up the ranks. He wanted to fly. To push the boundaries of where he thought he could go. Now the future is open and his path is clear. He could go anywhere. Do anything. But every turn has him questioning his purpose. Every step seems to take him further from what he wants. He is trespassing within his own life. 

And he is lost. 

Even if this promotion isn’t what Shiro wished for, 

It is an achievement. And, 

Isn’t it at least a way to remind himself, ‘I am alive’?

Shiro is exhausted when he says, “Pidge’s lab is on Earth. She’s making amazing strides in the technology that we have: communications, transport, travel. It won’t be long until the wormholing tech is advanced enough...I’ll still see you, Keith. I want---I would never want to say goodbye.” 

Keith nods. He’s subdued as he gives his answer. “Earth is not my home, Shiro. You know that.” 

The rude waiter presents them with their check, but the bit isn’t funny anymore. Not when Shiro pays the bill and Keith is silent, swallowing back what might be bitter words, might be tears, might be a final damning reply to everything Shiro has said. 

They travel back to the Atlas. It’s never been like this between them. The silence feels tight around Shiro’s neck. Keith’s breaths are deliberately even. 

Shiro is selfish, he thinks, when they land and he stays at Keith’s side to walk Keith back to his room. Just to spend that much more time with him. It feels like this might be his last chance. They stop in front of Keith’s door. 

Keith takes a long time to say anything, but when he does speak, it’s an echo of something he said a long time ago. With emotion that sometimes buoyed Shiro during dark nights, but has sometimes haunted him too.

“I’m happy for you, Shiro.” Keith says, his voice still tight. “I’m proud of you.” 

He steps into Shiro’s arms, their bodies flush together for the briefest moment before Keith pulls away. 

Shiro imagines that he feels the brush of Keith’s lips on his cheek as he withdraws. Shiro wants to tilt his head, to catch him in a real kiss, to give Keith everything he is. But that everything feels black and vacant, like lost time and unimaginable distance and the deep dark that hums sinister just behind his eyes. 

He wants to. But he can’t. He doesn’t. 

Keith squeezes his hand and leaves Shiro standing outside his door. 

Shiro spends the night at his desk in the captain’s office. His bedroom feels too empty. He takes the document from the top drawer of his desk, but he doesn’t open it. He’s thinking of Keith. 

*

_ “Is he awake yet?” Keith asks Krolia as he returns to Black.  _

_ She shakes her head. “Maybe soon.”  _

_ The two of them talk in low whispers about the state of their little caravan of lions, and the plan for the next quintant. They were lucky to find this no-name planet; it’s hospitable enough for the time being. His team might be shaken---the loss of the castleship, the battle with Lotor, the flagging strength of their lions despite their seemingly bottomless reserves of power---but Keith knows that they’re strong. And they are together.  _

_ Romelle is helping Coran inventory their supplies. Hunk has been left in charge of rations. The three of them are constantly arguing, loudly, but it’s the kind of arguing that people do when they’re close. Like a family, Keith thinks.  _

_ Allura is worn---mentally, physically, emotionally---but Keith caught her smiling the last time he ducked his head in Blue’s cockpit to touch base. Lance was blathering on about something stupid, one hand weaving and dipping throughout the air, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. He met Keith’s eyes above the princess’ head, and Keith knows that she’ll be okay.  _

_ Pidge is working more furiously than ever, but Keith and the others have made an agreement to ensure she takes breaks to eat and gets plenty of sleep. She’s amazing, but she’s also the baby of the group, and Keith  _ will  _ take her laptop if she refuses to rest properly.  _

_ In the black lion, Shiro begins to stir and Keith settles down next to the cot. He pushes back wet strands of Shiro’s hair---now completely silver-white---off of his forehead. The temperature inside the lion is cool enough, and Shiro’s fever has broken, but he still doesn’t seem to be comfortable. He’s been tossing and turning for hours now. Keith moves to get a small towel to help him. He runs it under the tap in the lion’s tiny ensuite bathroom. Wrings it out.  _

_ He returns to Shiro’s side, gently running the cloth over his forehead and face. It’s been two days since Allura was able to transfer his consciousness. A few hours prior to that they were battling for their lives against Lotor. The castleship is gone.  _

_ And before that.  _

_ The clone facility. The fight. Keith doesn’t pause in pressing the cloth against Shiro’s skin. Keith was shaken, injured, terrified, pushed past every limit---more scared than he’s ever been. But it didn’t matter. Keith was determined to see it through to the end, no matter what.  _

_ That was enough.  _

_ Shiro is safe now, here with Keith.  _

_ Shiro murmurs something, not quite awake, and Keith sets the cloth aside.  _

_ “I will make the rounds and check on the others.” Krolia tells Keith, the commanding edge of her voice softened, in a way that Keith recognizes is just for him. “If you need me, I’m here.”  _

_ Keith nods.  _

_ She leaves and Keith is left alone with Shiro. He picks up a datapad to work on their proposed route back to Earth. Without the Castleship and the ability to wormhole, their journey could--- _

_ He is only on it for a few moments when Shiro begins to wake. Keith sets the datapad aside.  _

_ Shiro’s face draws into a grimace. He tries to sit up, feet dragging across the sheets, body shifting uncomfortably, unnaturally. His missing arm makes him unbalanced. He falls back against the thin mattress with a pained groan. _

_ “Shiro, what do you need, I can---”  _

_ “Keith,” Shiro murmurs, eyes blinking in the dim light inside the lion, maybe failing to adjust as they should. He struggles again against the sheets, this time finding purchase with his left arm. He manages to sit up. His voice comes out more agitated now, almost a gasp: “Keith, where---” _

_ Keith snaps on a light. “It’s okay. We’re in Black, you’re---” _

_ Shiro startles at the change, focus darting around the room before it lands on Keith.  _

_ Keith says his name, but Shiro doesn’t seem to hear. He has his back pressed against the inner hull of the lion--- _

_ Shiro is panicking. The way his hand is clenched into a fist, the wideness of his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest. He’s breathing shallow, rapid breaths, eyes frantic around the small hold as if trapped.  _

_ “Shiro,” Keith repeats, desperate. He never would have expected this reaction, not from Shiro. Not with him. “It’s---look at me. Just focus on me, you’re safe---you---” _

_ Shiro finds Keith’s face, gaze automatically dipping to the fresh wound marring Keith’s cheek. Keith sees the exact moment that Shiro’s panic twists into pain.  _

_ “No,” he chokes. He moans, tipping forward, fumbling, reaching for Keith and holding himself back all at once. His one hand scrambles at his throat, as if he’s trying to catch his breath and can’t. Like he’s choking. “No. I--No. No---” _

_ “Shiro,” Keith stands, trying to comfort him, “Please,”  _

_ Shiro moans again, like it’s punched out of him, visceral, blinding pain. He tries to stand, forcing his way out of the bed with a kind of frenzied energy. He manages to get past Keith, but he hasn’t walked for...Keith doesn’t know how long. His legs crumple underneath his weight. Keith swears, moving forward as if to help, but Shiro cries out at his approach. He scrambles to his feet---it’s painful to watch, the way Shiro, who is always so powerful, so composed, can barely stay upright. He’s leaning heavily against the wall of the ship as he stumbles to the bathroom.  _

_ He falls there, Keith can hear his knees hit the ground, and he’s throwing up.  _

_ He retches and coughs. And a sob breaks loose.  _

_ The sound of it---- _

_ The sound of it almost brings Keith to his knees. Shiro. Keith’s eyes sting at the corners and his hands are balled into fists to stop their shaking. He presses the door open.  _

_ He finds Shiro curled in on himself, head hung. Shiro says something, maybe Keith's name, but his voice is hoarse and it comes out more cough than anything.  _

_ “Shiro,” Keith sinks to his side, gently touching Shiro’s shoulder, trying to anchor him. Here, in this moment. “It’s me, Keith. We’re aboard Black. We’re---everyone is okay. You’re okay.”  _

_ Shiro chokes on another sob, angling his face away. His cheeks are wet with tears and the sight of it makes something come undone in Keith’s chest. His heart breaks for him. “Shiro. Please.”  _

_ He’s overwhelmed, maybe. Confused. Weakened from isolation, afraid of memories, lost in nightmares.  _

_ “Tell me,” Keith says, urges. “Tell me---what is it?” He’s never seen Shiro like this. He’s shaking, he won’t meet Keith’s eyes.  _

_ Shiro clears his throat, but the words don’t come. A tear drops from the edge of his jaw to the shirt he’s wearing, staining the gray fabric darker. He shakes his head, shoulders bowed as if under a heavy weight.  _

_ “It’s okay,” Keith falters. “If you can’t---you---just listen. Okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slowly takes Shiro’s hand. Holds it between his own.  _

_ Shiro’s fingers curl, tightening around Keith’s. Keith squeezes back, so hard it’s painful. He’s sitting on the floor in front of Shiro, holding his hand. The bathroom is narrow, barely enough floor for both of them, but it’s enclosed and brightly lit, and maybe that’s what Shiro needs. Keith breathes deep, hoping to calm him. “Um. Okay. It’s been, it’s been about three days since we’ve landed here. Or three quintants. Whatever.” Keith wets his lips. He shouldn’t---he probably shouldn’t mention much of anything. He doesn’t know how much Shiro remembers. He’s been in and out of lucidity since the consciousness transfer.  _

_ “This place we’re docked is kinda nice, actually.” Keith swallows. “Except, at first. There was this weird thing, I don’t really know the details, but uh. Coran somehow got the others shrunk. Like, smaller? It sounded really weird, but, they’re fine now? Normal sized, I mean. Yeah, they’re fine now.”  _

_ Shiro’s breathing is gradually becoming more even, though his hand is a vice, gripping Keith’s too hard.  _

_ “But, other than that, it’s been kinda boring actually.” Keith doesn’t quite laugh, just a huff of breath, “I can take boring. Fine with me. Mom says we’re in pretty neutral territory right now, as far as the empire, which is good, because our lions are offline at the moment. But Allura thinks that they just need to recharge. I guess lions can get tired too?”  _

_ Keith continues to talk, meandering through the little exploration the others have done. The inventory of rations they have. No food goo, it’s a shame. The strange way the sunset looks from this small planet on the outskirts of a galaxy Keith can’t name. All indigo and crimson. How much the space wolf hates being cooped up in the lion’s cockpit. She keeps trying to eat his shoes. Anything Keith can think of, he tells Shiro there, talking until Shiro’s hand relaxes his grip on Keith’s.  _

_ “Keith,” Shiro says, what might be minutes of hours later. Keith is only concerned with this; he doesn’t know the time.  _

_ “I’m here,” Keith says, quiet. “I’m here, Shiro.”  _

_ Shiro looks up, meets Keith’s eyes for the slightest moment. His eyes look watery, red-rimmed; the gray-lavender-blue that Keith has always loved is dull.  _

_ “Shiro,” Keith whispers again.  _

_ Shiro’s mouth wobbles and he chokes out a sob, painful, awful.  _

_ Keith moves closer, and Shiro shakes his head. He withdraws his hand from between Keith’s, and raises it, trembling, to touch Keith’s cheek.  _

_ The pad of Shiro’s thumb brushes the knotted skin of the fresh cut with so much gentleness that Keith can barely feel it. Shiro pulls his hand away and shakes his head.  _

_ Keith picks his hand back up, cradling it in his own. He presses a kiss to Shiro’s palm, careful, deliberate. And then places the palm against his cheek. Shiro’s hand is cold against his skin. Keith resolves to warm it.  _

_ “It doesn’t hurt, Shiro.” Keith tells him, voice low. He ducks his head slightly, trying to pull Shiro’s gaze to meet his. Shiro’s eyes are squeezed shut, so Keith continues. “It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t.” He swallows. Closes his own eyes. Shiro’s hand is big, familiar and good. His touch has always been kind. He’s given Keith so much. Always. Everything. “Even though he could have killed me, Shiro, he didn’t. You didn’t. You held back. You came through.” _

_ Heart beating fast in his chest, Keith drops his grip on Shiro’s hand. It stays pressed to his cheek. Keith opens his eyes to find that Shiro is looking at him.  _

_ Keith reaches forward, cupping Shiro’s cheek now, a mirror of Shiro’s position. He swipes the edge of his thumb over the crest of Shiro’s cheekbone. Gathering the wetness there. “I meant what I said.”  _

_ Shiro nods, fresh tears still making their way down his cheeks. Keith leans in, touching their foreheads together, breathing the same breath as Shiro. Shiro lets himself be drawn forward, lets Keith hold him, gathering Shiro to his chest, pulling him close. His hand slips from Keith’s cheek to the back of Keith’s neck, letting himself fold into Keith. Keith strokes down Shiro’s back, his broad shoulders, the proud line of his spine. Shiro shudders. Keith feels wetness soak his tee shirt, feels hot breath against his neck as Shiro cries. And though his heart breaks in Shiro’s pain, he takes a kind of comfort in it too. Because Shiro is here, with him, and they are together. And Shiro is safe.  _

_ They stay like that, curled into one another. The floor is cool underneath Keith’s legs, and the black lion is silent and still around them.  _

_ Keith fell in love like a match catches flame. Spectacular fire bright under his skin, sudden, as if from nothing. Unexpected. It was under widest blue sky, under oppressive heat, with a grin pulling on his lips, and a hoverbike spinning underneath him. Happened in an instant, between one heartbeat and the next. The man whom Keith fell in love with was larger than life, perfect in his eyes.  _

_ This man is troubled, hurting, lost, grieving in his arms. Keith can only love him more for it. He loves Shiro slower now. It doesn’t need to be fast; he has forever. This burns at his very core, deeper than anything else. It’s permanent.  _

_ Later, maybe not much later, maybe far, far later----it doesn’t matter. Later, Keith helps Shiro to his feet. They walk back to the cot, Keith pulling Shiro down with him. Shiro curls next to him, making no protest as Keith gathers him close. Shiro’s head on his chest, lying close enough that Keith can push the silver hair off his forehead, skate his fingertips between Shiro’s shoulder blades. Keith is content as Shiro closes his eyes, heavy weight settled on top of him. Like he’s meant to be there. Like they’re made for this, to fit together, just like this. Keith’s hands come to rest over the small of Shiro’s back.  _

_ Keith realizes then, in the dark and the calm, that his own cheeks are wet too. He tilts his face up, closing his tear-swollen eyes; he can feel Shiro inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale, over him. Alive.  _

_ “Takashi,” Keith tells him, “We’re okay. We’re gonna be okay.”  _

_ Shiro’s arm tightens around him, drawing Keith that much closer. It’s all the answer Keith needs. _

_ Once Shiro falls asleep, it takes only a moment for Keith to drift off as well.  _

_ *  _

About 20 varga after the moment Shiro leaves Keith’s door, Shiro is giving a speech in front of approximately five thousand people. The crew of the Atlas are listening, alongside many important leaders from this system who attended the conference, some of their citizens, as well as other key players who are involved in the Coalition. 

He wrote the speech not long ago, maybe just a varga or two. The words came easily, considering the sleepless night he spent holed up in his office. Numb. 

Shiro says the right things with bright, hot lights beating down on him---his image is recorded and projected huge onto screens behind him on either side of the stage where he stands. This is something he’s done many times before, and he goes through the routine with practiced ease. His back is straight, his voice is clear, full. He doesn’t fumble. He is, in many ways, the face of the Coalition. The face of unity, the face of triumph over tyranny. The face of rebuilding. Moving forward. Progress. 

Shiro says the right things, in the right way, and is met with thunderous applause. He accepts it graciously, pulling Allura forward because it’s really her that all this is for, that all this has happened. He motions so that the leaders of Syir, Ha’un, and Ijan may say their piece if they wish. They are now the newest members of the Coalition. This system’s alliance marks a huge stride forward---towards repairing the damage done by Zarkon and the rule of the empire. Today is a victory. 

The bright lights dim and the cameras turn off and Shiro’s part is complete. 

*

Following the negotiations, and the speeches, and the drawn out ceremony of the alliance, there is a much smaller party aboard the Atlas. 

Strictly speaking, Shiro is not obligated to attend. But as the captain, he at least should put in an appearance. He makes the rounds, smile weary, but not forced. The Atlas is the first of its kind for Earth; her crew is comprised of people hungry for new worlds, for progress, for peace. Talented, brilliant people. They are hand selected, good people with ideals. He’s been lucky to be among them. He believes that. 

He spots Keith almost immediately. It would be impossible for Shiro  _ not  _ to see him, even if Keith weren’t dressed in his full Blade uniform. His confidence is unobtrusive, all quiet, reserved strength, but his presence is commanding. Shiro is drawn to him. Shiro has always been drawn to him. 

Keith will be leaving soon. Now that the politics have quieted in this system and that the groundwork has been laid for peace, the Blades will soon be called elsewhere. Keith will leave because of this, but also because Shiro has given him no reason to stay. 

Shiro makes the rounds, but he purposely does not find his way to Keith’s side. 

Shiro leaves the party sooner than he should. 

Once in his office, he takes the folder out of his desk for the last time. He signs the contract included within the letter from Commander Tylor. His acceptance of the position will be transmitted to Earth in a matter of moments. The decision is made. 

*

_ Keith wakes up to the sound of Shiro’s voice...  _

_ … _

_ On the television…? _

_ His eyelids feel like they have cinder blocks attached to them, and the sheets of the hospital bed are twisted uncomfortable around his leg. He tries to lean forward to untangle himself, but one of the machines next to him immediately starts blaring out a horrible, repetitive noise. Keith closes his eyes and makes a conscious effort not to get out of bed and destroy it.  _

_ The thing quiets; Keith opens his eyes.  _

_ The television is mounted in one corner of the room. Lance is standing in front of it, just past the right corner of the foot of Keith’s bed. He has his head tilted up to watch the screen. The remote control is dangling out of his right hand, the fingers of his left tapping against his thigh as he listens to Shiro address the world.  _

“...but that light, that fire, has not gone out completely. It is fueled within each of us. By the memories, and the love---” 

_ Lance jumps when he realizes Keith is sitting up. “Oh, is it too loud? Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, buddy,” he motions wildly around with the remote before muting the broadcast.  _

_ “I was watching that, Lance,” Keith grits out. He kicks the offensive sheets off his legs in irritation. The machine beeps again. Keith yanks the cords out of it so it shuts up.  _

_ Lance waves a hand. “Dude, it’ll be all over the internet later, just watch it then. How’re you feeling?”  _

_ Keith looks back to the television. It seems like someone put together a montage of some of the footage of the lions during their last battle. It looks really cool. He can’t see half of it because Lance is blocking the screen. “Annoyed.”  _

_ Lance’s face splits into a grin. He claps Keith on the legs, “Glad to hear it, buddy, I’m not gonna lie, I was scared for a minute there. Because, yanno, we all thought your head was too hard to break, and then, typical Keith, you go and break it anyways. I said, that’s exactly---”  _

_ Keith touches his forehead and finds that it is, actually, covered in bandages. Head injury. Huh. That explains the pounding headache he currently has. Well. And Lance.  _

_ “How long have I been here,” he demands, cutting Lance off.  _

_ “Oooohkay, nevermind what I was actually saying. That’s fine. Letsee, like,” Lance squints and makes a show of counting on his fingers. “Four days? No, counting the surgery, five days.”  _

_ Five days?  _

_ “Is everyone else alright? What about Sendak? And that thing we were fighting? The Atlas transformed? Is Shiro okay?”  _

_ Lance drags one of the dingey hospital chairs away from the bland, beige walls. He swings it around so that he’s sitting backwards in it and plops down at Keith’s bedside. “Alright! Rapid fire question time? I like it, I like it. Here we go: Yes, they’re fine. Dead as doornail. We’re still looking into the debris, but something seems fishy. Yeah, it was mega badass, wasn’t it?” He takes a breath. “Shiro is...okay.”  _

_ “Okay?” Keith asks.  _

_ Lance shrugs. Hands gripping the back of the chair in front of him, he rocks back dramatically and lets out a big sigh. “Yeah, man. It’s been...well. I wasn’t lying when I said we were worried about you. Things were a little touch-and-go for a minute there. You were pretty hurt.” His eyes float down to Keith’s face. “I’m glad you’re okay.”  _

_ Keith feels the tops of his cheeks start to burn. “Stop being nice.” He grumbles. “You’re grossing me out.”  _

_ Lance hits him with a big wonky smile. He settles down over the back of the chair, rests his chin serenely over his hands and says, “Bonding moment.”  _

_ “Fuck you,” Keith spits back with a grin.  _

_ Lance laughs, easy-going for a moment, but then his expression pulls into something out-of-place on his face. Somber. “Shiro took it hard. Your injury. It was bad, man. He---well, I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this, but. Adam was killed in action.” _

_ Keith blinks. Sits up a little straighter in the bed.  _

_ “I know it’s been a long time since they. But, you know. And.” Lance pauses, hands now fiddling with the edge of the hospital blanket. “And then you, you were hurt. And he was sick with worry. He was driving all of us crazy, actually. Did you know that Shiro hates hospitals?”  _

_ Keith shakes his head, slow enough to not exacerbate the wound. He can guess why.  _

_ “Yeah, me neither. Turns out he does,” Lance continues. “He didn’t want to be here at all, at first, and then he was so worried about you, he practically broke down the door when he finally made himself come in. It. Was. Wild. He kept pacing around, all manic, kinda like you, but it’s scarier when Shiro does it because he’s not a mullet-y emo constipated asshat of a,”  _

_ “Lance,”  _

_ “Yeah, anyways, he kept pestering the nurses, and the doctors, and arguing with them about what room you were in, and whether you were in pain, and whether you should be allowed to have visitors, and lots of other stuff.” Lance takes a breath. “He even pulled rank on one poor fucker, all ‘ _ Do you know who I am? _ ’ super intense and threatening, which, on one hand, was hilarious, but on the other hand was like, yikes.” Lance is quiet as he continues, “I think he was terrified, man. Even with everything we’ve been through, I’ve never seen him like that. I think he was really, really scared.”  _

_ Keith bites his lip, gaze dipping down to the IV line in the crook of his arm. If their situations were reversed, he can only imagine... _

_ “And since then, he’s gone a little bit crazy with the work stuff. And I mean. We all deal with shit differently. And I think we can all agree that Shiro has a lot of shit to deal with. But.” Lance sighs again, and shakes his head. “He’s just doing too much.”  _

_ “He always does,” Keith says softly.  _

_ Lance looks glum. “This is worse. I mean, I know the Atlas is a big deal, and he’s in charge, I get that. It’s serious stuff. But. Dude’s gotta sleep sometime, you know? At least take a break. Process. Heal. All that jazz.”  _

_ Keith nods.  _

_ “Annnnyways,” Lance stands up and claps Keith on the legs again. “I’m sure that now that you’re fine, he’ll be fine. Heck, he’ll probably show up any minute.” He gives Keith a wink, “Now if you’ll excuse me I have a date with---uh, well, it’s not exactly a date, I haven’t really made it Official or anything, but, uh, it’s pretty close to a date. A-at least I think it’s close, because,”  _

_ Keith is mercifully saved from Lance’s downward spiral into self-doubt, as his mother and Kolivan walk into the room. They are far, far quieter visitors than Lance, at the very least.  _

_ Shiro, even hours later, does not come to Keith’s room. Sometime throughout the day someone let it slip that his comm is in the bedside table, so Keith takes it out at the first opportunity, just in case. There’s a few pings there---general announcements from the Garrison, an automated message from the Atlas informing the crew of their boarding schedule, a long and confusing message from Pidge---but nothing from Shiro.  _

_ When everyone is gone, and Keith is supposed to be resting, he slides out of the hospital bed onto shaky legs. He walks over to the window and pushes back the curtains to see a small sliver of the blue he used to know so well.  _

*

One hour and thirty-five minutes before his alarm goes off, Shiro wakes up and knows that something is wrong. 

He is  _ freezing. _ His body feels stiff with cold as his hands find the edge of the blanket and he moves out of bed. 

Shiro rubs his hands together, but the Altean metal does little to warm his human hand, even with the friction. It’s like ice. He walks across his room to the closet, but the movement is slow, jerky---he’s fighting back a shiver. His teeth are chattering. Shiro fumbles on his uniform, two attempts to step into his pants legs, concentrating intently on getting the buttons done up with his numb hands. The cold cloth against his skin seems to do nothing to contain his body heat. He ignores the desire to crawl back into bed and curl up into the little bit of warmth lingering there. 

He wears double socks, and heavy boots instead of the smart dress shoes that he prefers on the day-to-day. The door from his quarters outside into the hall opens with a rush of air biting enough to make his eyes water. Shiro sticks his hands in his armpits for warmth and begins the walk through the officers’ quarters. 

It’s dark. Without the hum of the temperature control vents, the hall is still as death. And it seems to only be getting colder. 

The bridge is three decks below the barracks, and the descent takes some time. Shiro takes the maintenance stairways instead of one of the auto-lifts, because he doesn’t know if it’s a power supply issue, and the captain getting stuck in an elevator will help exactly zero people. The maintenance routes between the bulkheads are closer to the hull, and as Shiro makes his way down to the bridge, he sees that ice has already begun to form in some areas. 

This is not good. 

The night crew aren’t surprised to see him when Shiro sets foot on the bridge several hours before his shift actually begins. 

“Status,” he says, in lieu of his typical ‘good morning,’ 

His crew is incredibly capable. Shiro often walks onto his morning shift with no problems on the horizon, and a tidy report of every detail he could want to know about the time he was away. 

Today, the lead officer, a Garrison-trained-pilot-turned-soldier like himself, falters. “No outside anomalies to report, Captain. As far as ship status, sir. It seems. We’re having issues maintaining ambient temperature,” 

Shiro looks at her---she must be made of sterner stuff than he, she barely seems chilled. “Believe it or not, Clark, I already figured that out.” He stands up a little straighter, instead of hunching against the numbing temperature. “Can anyone provide information beyond what I knew a varga ago from the comfort of my bed?” 

“Engines fine, sir!” 

“All life support functions fully, um, functioning!” 

“Weapons online! Sir!” 

“Captain, pardon the question, but, are you okay?” Brooke, one of the night crew's girlfriends, and therefore not  _ technically _ supposed to be on the bridge, asks him. 

Shiro clenches his teeth, more to stop them from chattering than in irritation, although he  _ is  _ becoming increasingly irritated. He ignores the question about his obvious discomfort. “So you’re telling me we’re not going to crash or suffocate or be left helpless in deep space. That’s a start. But can someone please tell me why I can’t feel my toes?” 

Clark leans out from her station to look at Shiro’s boots before raising her eyes to his face. She shakes her head. 

The lead night engineer raises a hand. “It’s not a line or distribution issue.” He’s an older man, one of the crew who worked on the original Calypso back in the day. Brilliant. 

“Dr. Toure. Please tell me you know what kind of issue it is, then.” Shiro implores, meeting the engineer at his screen. 

“Mmm,” he hums, pushing his glasses up his nose. He must be hearty for an older gentleman; he hardly seems to notice the cold. “No. I’m afraid not.” He pulls up a three dimensional diagram of the ship, narrowing the view to the deepest parts of the ship, where the crystal generated power originates. “I’ve been running diagnostics, every few minutes, you see. And the discrepancies occur right at the source. The core temperature has been steadily dropping for the last six hours. Now the shipwide ambient temperature is slowly falling as well. But there have been no outer influences that might have caused a surge, or a break. “ He shakes his head. 

The good engineer knows when something is outside of his expertise. “In my professional opinion, you need to consult someone with more experience in this kind of technology. I can’t make heads or tails of it.” 

*

“Hmmmmm,” Coran muses so hard that his moustache quivers. He bounds around the floating diagram of the ship’s core. “Number One, this is quite the predicament!! Why I’ve never seen anything quite like it!” 

“Not exactly what I want to hear, Coran.” Shiro replies, slumping in a chair at the head of the table in the conference room. He took the liberty (as the captain) of collecting a duvet from one of the barracks. Now he has it around his shoulders. It’s helping. A little. 

Someone also shoved a coffee mug in his hands somewhere along the way. With his human hand wrapped around it, a little of the feeling has come back into his fingers. He’s still shivering. 

“I’m sure he just means,” Allura begins, tapping a hand against her cheek while she thinks of a way to phrase things delicately, 

“We’re fucked!” Lance pipes up. 

“Will you shut up for once in your life, Lance.” Pidge grouses from a computer screen. Shiro has no idea what time it is on Earth, but Pidge has always kept strange hours. She was awake when Shiro called her, at least. “Some of us are trying to chart applied force anomalies in Terran-Altean hybrid technology,” 

“I’ll apply your anomalies, short stack!” Lance sticks out his tongue. “Don’t think just because you’re ten bazillion miles away that you can get away with talking to me like---”

“Oh! Oh!” Hunk breaks in, from yet another computer screen. In yet another galaxy. “Guys, what if this is like that time when we fought that monster on that creepy rhubarb planet, what was it called,” 

“Rootus, in the Herschlithni galaxy, I believe,” Coran nods, 

“Guzuntight,” Lance adds,

“Yeah, that,” Hunk says, looking unconvinced, “But anyways. Remember how it wasn’t really the monster that we had to beat? Because,”

“That guy was attached to the city with some kind of mental link,” Keith says, from where he’s standing, leaning against the wall behind Shiro. “But why is it only Shiro who’s freezing cold?” 

(Keith was already waiting when Shiro exited the bridge on his way to call Pidge for an emergency conference. He’s fully dressed, despite the early hour, like Shiro.

“Shiro. I was just---Is everything okay? What’s going on?” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Shiro tells him, an attempt at levity. They haven’t spoken since...

Keith cuts through it: “No need to say good morning to someone who hasn’t slept.” 

Shiro can’t hide anything from Keith. “Technically,” he says, “I did sleep. I must have. Because I woke up to find my ship has been turned into---” 

“Shiro. Is it---is it worse when I’m here?” Keith's face is drawn tight. 

Although he’s already freezing, the question makes Shiro feel like he’s been doused with cold water. He’s numb. He’s drowning. “Keith---no. No. Of course not.” 

“Then tell me why---” Keith cut himself off, as Allura and Lance found their way into the conference room. Lance’s eyebrows were raised so high they disappeared into his hairline as he looked between Keith and Shiro.) 

“I think Hunk is right.” Pidge decides, after a good deal of strenuous clacking on her keyboard. 

Hunk beams. “I mean, yeah. I usually am.” 

She ignores him, clacking some more, until a more detailed holo-image of the ship hovers in the room. It rotates slowly, pixels shimmering like they’re shivering with the cold---just like Shiro. The power lines are highlighted in blue, from their nexus they reach throughout the ship like vasculature curling away the heart. 

“So you can see, obviously, there’s no issues with the ducts.” Pidge clicks and the blue power lines disappear, leaving the hull of the ship and all of the inner bulkheads marked in red. “And the integrity of the ship is sound. There’s been no breach. The program I’m running also confirms that it’s not a software issue.” 

The holo-image rotates and changes, swirls of color as the pixels form the Atlas’ innermost lower decks. “See here?” Pidge clicks and a blue arrowhead appears where the ship’s crystal core is located. “This is our issue.” 

And Shiro feels a chill, sharper and deeper than the ice in his veins. His ship is shutting down. Turned in on herself, calamitous, ruined at her very center. And she’s taking him with her. 

“Soooo,” Lance drawls, walking through the image. 

Lance justs his chin out and squints his eyes and he says, “If I’m looking at this thing right, it’s basically just like a five minute walk, right? Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go check it out and see what’s going on all up-close-n-personal!” 

From just behind Shiro, Keith snorts. 

“Wonderfully incorrect!” Coran sings, sending the image into a riotous spin so that the group can see beyond the massive drop in the ship’s interior. Deep purple clouds are rolling within the hull, violet lightning across the core. “Even if the core is undamaged---which who can say behind all this ruckus!” His moustache wiggles as he spreads his arms wide, “It would take at least several varga and plenty of good ol’fashioned wherewithal to reach the ship’s center! A three varga trek, at the minimum. And by the looks of it, poor Number One’s blothwags are nearly frozen off before we’ve even began!!” 

“I’d appreciate it if my blothwags stayed out of the conversation,” Shiro says, primly. 

“Oh man, I don’t even know what half that stuff means,” Hunk is wringing his hands. “But I’m worried about you guys, do you think---” 

Allura cuts Hunk off with a brisque,  _ we’ll be fine  _ pat on his monitor, and motions for Coran to continue onwards with the holomap, “Frozen blothwags aside, Shiro, I think the best course of action,” 

She’s interrupted. 

A deafening  _ craaaack  _ splits the air, drowning out all other sound. In a motion too fast for Shiro to track, Keith has his knife in his hand, combat ready. He takes a step forward to stand at Shiro’s side. Shiro stands, dropping the duvet to the ground, the Altean prosthetic primed for a fight. Hunk shrieks and covers his face, despite being many lightyears away. Lance lets out a little eep and slides closer to Allura. 

The reverb from the noise sends a shudder through the ship. And then she stills. 

“So, uh.” Pidge pushes up her glasses. “What was that?” 

No one gets the chance to answer her---there’s another roar of sound as the ice surrounding the Atlas’ hull shifts and the floor is shaking under their feet. The walls around them tremble and groan as though the hull itself might be shorn in two. The room lurches downward, floor no longer perfectly flat under their feet, and everyone---Shiro included---collectively stumbles. 

Just another lovely day in deep space.

Keith’s hand finds its way onto Shiro’s back, steadying him. The touch is like a brand, searing hot--- Shiro almost gasps at the contact. He leans into Keith before he realizes what he’s doing. He straightens up, and Keith’s hand---his blessedly warm hand---slides down Shiro’s back and withdraws. Shiro tries to square his shoulders, find his feet. The ship settles. 

“Sir?” A screen unfurls as Clark, one of the officers from Shiro’s bridge crew, hails the meeting room where they are convened. Her face looks pinched with worry. “We have some new information regarding---” 

The screen flickers and skips. Shiro pulls away from Keith, trying to understand the distorted image. Clark’s frown deepens, her hands moving out of frame as she attempts to adjust the feed before the image turns to static. 

“That’s not supposed to do that, right?” Lance hisses in a loud whisper. “I don’t think---” 

There’s a sound like air decompressing, and Shiro barely has time to think,  _ well, that can’t be good, _ before, 

The room goes black. 

Pitch black. Shiro grits his teeth and closes his eyes against the dark. 

“Shiro?! Shiro! Guys?” Keith calls out. His voice is close. Real and firm and strong. The sound of it pulls Shiro to shore from where he’s slipping. “Is everyone okay?” 

And now he can hear the tap of footsteps against the floor, and the breaths of his team, and the clackclack of Pidge’s keyboard. He’s not alone. 

“Peachy keen, Keith,” Lance replies, “Except for, yanno, probably dying soon, because---” 

“Noooo,” Hunk groans, “Lannnce, don’t say that,” 

There’s a  _ clickclickclick _ and  _ snap!hummm _ and then the meeting room is bathed in the gentle aquamarine light that seems to be ubiquitous in Altean tech. 

Shiro unclenches his fists. Drops his shoulders. 

“Backup generators,” Shiro says, mouth dry. His voice doesn’t waver because he refuses to let it waver, no matter how fast his heart is beating. 

Keith is looking at him, but Shiro presses forward. “Can someone give me info on what caused this?” He’s already hailing the bridge but they’re not responding. He moves to look at his ship’s specs. Engines down. Navigation, offline. Communications, largely offline. Main power, obviously offline. 

Basically, they’re, 

“Helpless as a newborn nulburry!” Coran declares, gleeful, “Why, with the rapidly dropping internal temperatures and the inability to fly, we’re just absolutely quiznacked!” 

“Coran!” Allura admonished at the same time that, 

Shiro presses his lips together in an attempt to avoid releasing a thousand screams of pure, unadulterated exasperation. “Thank you, Coran. That’s very helpful.”

“We’re not fucked though,” Pidge says. She pulls up her legs to sit cross-legged in the chair she’s in. “The power can be reset easily enough.” The holo-tech is nonfunctional, but she pulls up an image on her screen and flips the laptop around so Shiro and the rest of the group can see on her monitor. 

“Oh!” Hunk gets it. “Like flipping a breaker!” 

“Yep.” Pidge nods. “It’s a manual job---someone has to actually go and do it---but it shouldn’t be that difficult. And….I’m thinking that if we reset the power, whatever was going on with the core should fall back into place.” She pushes the glasses up her nose. “Theoretically.” 

“So we just go and hit the whatever and everything should be fine,” Keith summarizes. 

Lance raises his hand. “Petition not to send Keith.” 

“It’s a one person job,” Shiro stands up straight, having reviewed the map on Pidge’s screen. The Atlas is his ship. Somehow, in some unexplainable way, the Atlas and he are inextricably connected. “She’s my ship. I’m the captain. I’ll go.” 

Keith opens his mouth in protest, 

But Allura beats him to it. “Shiro. I believe I’m stating the obvious here, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere. You’re shivering so much you can barely stand. Let Coran or I look at the ship.” 

Shiro shakes his head, 

Pidge looks up from her comm. “My dad is still on board. I’m sure he can,” 

The discussion is cut short as the ship lurches again. _ It has to be me, _ Shiro thinks. He knows.  _ It has to be me.  _

“We don’t have time for this,” Keith decides. “Shiro and I will go.” He shoots Shiro a look, daring him to disagree. 

Shiro has seen that look before. Not necessarily directed at him, but. Many times. 

For some reason it’s that familiarity that gives him the push to make the call: 

“Lance, Allura, Coran, you take the bridge. Instruct the crew that only the most basic maintenance duties should be performed until full power is restored. Full stand-by. For guidance, refer to emergency plan C5 in the ship’s log. No one should leave their quarters unless strictly necessary, so that we can conserve as much heat as possible. Hunk, can you establish a line with the closest Coalition member, provided they have an interstellar presence of centuri-4 or greater? If my crew needs to be evacuated, it’ll happen fast and they’ll need a destination. And Pidge, I’m going to need everything you can give me about her vitals while we’re down there. I don’t want any surprises.”

He takes a breath and looks into the faces of the people he trusts most. The circumstances surrounding this reunion are far from ideal, but he can’t deny it. He missed them. 

“Paladins,” Shiro says, bracing against the cold. “We can do this.” 

*

The warm glow of familiarity is short lived. While the others head to their stations, Shiro changes out of his uniform to journey below deck. 

The paladin armor has been retired for some time; Shiro now favors a less clunky normalsuit for when he’s actively piloting. The undersuit is a pale gray, with form fitting white armor and darker gray detailing making up the outer layer. 

What would normally be an insignificant task becomes a struggle, thanks to Shiro’s near freezing state. The little body heat that his uniform was conserving escapes just as soon as the air hits his bare skin. Shiro manages to step into the undersuit and pull it as high as his waist before the shivering makes him lose his grip. He curses under his breath and bends, gathering the fabric up through force of will. He’s focused on slipping his left hand in the sleeve when he sees Keith at the side of the room. 

The room is quiet, bathed in the minimal light from the secondary generators. Shiro stops his struggle, the normalsuit limp around his waist. A bolt of shame coils in his chest, poison that makes him want to turn away. He’s meant to be captain, meant to be strong,

“Pidge was able to send me detailed schematics of the inner hold,” Keith tells Shiro, stepping closer. He’s already changed, the Marmoran piloting suit as devastating on him as it always has been. “We looked it over and I think we’ll be able to make better time than Coran estimated.” 

Shiro nods. Head down, he resumes getting dressed. He’s familiar enough with his ship, but the map will help. He finally manages to slip his arm in the sleeve, but his movements are too sluggish to snap the opposite side into the arm piece. 

Keith steps forward, scuffed boots coming first into Shiro’s line of vision. Keith’s hands are at his waist, snapping the complicated closures that keep the suit in place. He lifts his gaze; Keith is close enough for Shiro to see the way the cowlick at the front of his hair makes the strands go every which way, even though Keith does his best to tame it. A lock drops out of place as Keith helps Shiro get dressed---Shiro squeezes his numb hands into fists to prevent himself from touching, tucking the hair back into place. If Keith notices Shiro’s fidgeting, he ignores it. Deft hands smooth the material over Shiro’s chest and orient it correctly with the arm port. 

Eyes cast down, focused on the task, he moves behind Shiro to pull the zipper up Shiro’s back. 

If it were anyone else, Shiro would protest, but he makes no comment as Keith drops down into a squat, fitting the leg pieces snug below Shiro’s knees and around his thighs. He’s far from gentle, movements too brisk, too pointed. Keith stands, ignoring Shiro’s proffered arm to help him up. The gauntlet is next; Keith’s fingers encircle Shiro’s left wrist to adjust the thing, then type in the code against Shiro’s inner wrist to activate the suit. Shiro’s vitals hover in the air on a holoscreen---his body temperature is already flagged, a helpful notification letting them both know hypothermia is only one or two degrees away at most. Shiro closes the screen. 

It’s only after Keith has helped Shiro with the chest piece that he raises his eyes to look into Shiro’s face. 

His expression is grim. Jaw clenched, brows set heavy over his eyes. He’s angry.

“Keith…” Shiro starts. The apology is heavy on his tongue. He keeps picturing Keith’s expression then, in the restaurant---mouth downturned, the hurt in his eyes, dark lashes over his cheeks as he looked anywhere but Shiro’s face, fighting to compose himself---after Shiro told him of the new position. Even anger is better. 

Keith hands Shiro his helmet. “Your lips are blue,” he says. He touches his own suit at the back of his neck, and the Blade’s mask shimmers into place. 

*

The hallways, once Keith and Shiro have dropped below the operational decks into the maintenance corridors, are narrow. 

They are also pitch black dark. 

Here they are far, far below the bridge of the Altas. They are removed from her barracks, the research centers, the communications hub, all her weaponry, docking bays, everything. Hundreds of lives---a small city, almost---carry on over their heads. But here there is just the narrow hall, and the small circlet of light ahead, cast by Shiro’s suit. 

“Still with me, Keith?” Shiro asks. They’ve been walking for what feels like hours, though it hasn’t been, though they still have a long ways to go. Keith is behind Shiro, the faint glow of his mask only visible if Shiro looks over his shoulder. 

Shiro hears Keith’s faint exhale through the comm line, only audible amongst the utter silence of the bowels of the failing ship. 

“Yeah.” 

Shiro nods, resigned. Keith has made it clear he’s here to complete this particular task, not to chat. Shiro can’t blame him. It occurred to him a few minutes ago, that the reason Keith was fully dressed at such an early hour is probably because he was planning on leaving this morning. Shiro finds he doesn’t have the courage to ask Keith if his assumption is correct. 

The dark and the silence begin to weigh on his mind as he trudges on, and Shiro places a hand against the wall to anchor himself. 

Fuck, he’s cold. 

His body seems to have given up on shivering as a way to generate heat. The normalsuit is made to withstand extreme temperatures, but it’s no heated blanket. Hypothermia is only edging closer. Shiro can feel the way his movements are sluggish, the heaviness of his steps, the struggle to stay focused on moving forward. In a very real way, his body is shutting down. He pushes himself. Continues along the route. 

There’s ice along the walls, crystals gathered at the intersection of the plates that comprise Atlas’ inner hull. The thready beam of light catches in each juncture, deadly cold glittering like gems as they walk. 

As if in a daze, Shiro lets his mind drift towards less weighted memories than those of endless dark. Frost along the window frame of his bedroom as a kid. Wooden floors, lovingly maintained for hundreds of years, that required slippers to keep the cold at bay. Wide, white skies and air brittle enough to burn if you breathed in deep and hard. His grandfather’s estate was old and beautiful. Gilded in fresh snow it became almost magical. 

“I used to love the snow,” Shiro remembers. His voice is barely above a whisper, eaten up by the long, long path ahead. 

“Huh?”

He can hear the question in Keith’s voice, and it’s true, reminiscing about snow when you’re freezing to death is probably not standard practice. But Shiro has faced death long enough to draft his own standard operating procedures. And if they happen to deviate from the norm, well, blame the alien gladiator matches and homicidal dictators and magical witches, not him. 

“The snow,” Shiro repeats. He realizes he’s probably never spoken with Keith about his childhood. Neither of them are particularly open about their pasts; it’s one more thing that they have in common. Maybe one more thing that he should work on, Shiro decides, right then. He speaks a little louder this time. “When I was little, it would snow so much that I would imagine the school being covered up completely. Mostly so I wouldn’t have to go.” He’s picturing freezing rain, the hail and the way it sounded on the old roof of the bakery he and his grandfather would stop at, sometimes, if Shiro was good. (Shiro was always good.) “Sadly, I don’t remember that ever happening. The school was always fine, no matter how the weather turned out.” 

Shiro continues. “But I do remember how many layers I would have to wear for the walk there.” A smile creeps into his voice. He’s thinking of his grandfather’s hand, large and warm and calloused, wrapped around his own mittened one. In those days, the journey from his house to primary school seemed worlds apart. “And my grandfather would grip my hand so tight the whole way, because he was worried I was going to fall on some mysterious, unseen ice.” 

Keith laughs, soft. “I can’t see you being clumsy.” 

“Well, when you have on so many layers that your arms are stuck parallel to the ground,” Shiro snorts. “It’s all you can do to waddle to your destination.” 

Keith huffs out another barely there kind of laugh. His voice in Shiro’s helmet sounds so close when he responds. “I didn’t know you were raised by your grandfather.” 

Shiro breathes deep enough that the circlet of light quivers on the floor in front of his feet. He can picture the faded asphalt of the runway, the precise way his grandfather’s airport nestled into the land. “He’s the one who taught me to fly.” Shiro says then, simple. That’s really all the explanation needed. He knows Keith will understand. 

They continue on; Shiro’s slow footsteps sound strangely muffled in the narrow confines of the below decks. 

“I only saw snow on Earth once.” Keith says, a few minutes later. He clears his throat afterwards, a little awkward, a little self conscious. 

“You always lived in Arizona?” 

By now, the two of them have known each other for a long time. But conversations like this---wandering close to the heart, yet still casual, light---have become rarities. So much between them, so many hours spent in each other’s company, and still it somehow seems like never enough. In the dark and cold, there’s clarity; Shiro knows that he could spend forever with Keith and still crave more. 

Keith hums his answer, not quite a yes. “I moved through a few homes, but uh. Basically. Always southwest.” 

There’s a break in the corridor, where the passageway splits into two. Shiro chooses the one on the right out of instinct more than by following the map, and they continue onwards. The space between the bulkheads is so narrow now, his shoulders are angled so that they don’t brush the walls on both sides. 

“But I did see it once before, snow.” Keith continues. He’s close behind Shiro, close enough that his warm breath could ghost over the back of Shiro’s neck. If a layer of frost wasn’t coating Shiro’s shoulders. If they were someplace else, doing something different. Shiro wishes that were true. 

“On a field trip, up north. There’s forests up there instead of desert, and it gets cold enough to snow.” 

Shiro doesn’t interrupt him. Those who don’t know him well would never guess it, but Keith is fiercely sentimental at times. He can tell by the tone of Keith’s voice, how the rasp that usually curls around the edges of his words gets softened, wrapped in sticky sweet happiness. It’s a good memory. “I didn’t really care about the snow, but up there---away from all the light from the cities---there’s a huge telescope.” 

“And. Shiro. It was  _ so _ \---the observatory. Seeing the stars like that.” Keith pauses. “I felt like. That was it for me.” 

Shiro exhales. It’s cold enough now, this deep below deck, that even in his helmet the breath comes out a cloud of white. 

“I never thought I’d get closer than that.” Keith is quiet. “Never in a million years. Then you just showed up in the middle of second period Geometry. Offered me  _ everything. _ ” 

“And look at us now,” Shiro says, dry. What Keith is saying---it’s so much. Makes Shiro’s chest tight and his throat watery. “Below deck on a failing ship marooned in deep space. I really took us places, huh Keith?” 

Keith makes a grating noise, halfway between a teeth clench and a sigh, clearly not amused. His steps falter behind Shiro, just for a moment before he speaks again. “Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a motorcycle and went to Vegas?” 

Shiro turns back to him. There’s just enough light to give Keith a disbelieving look. 

“Yeah, I uh. Did that.” Keith clears his throat. 

His voice is steady and full as he begins to tell the story, 

“So I was living in a small town at the time, ‘bout twenty miles or so outside Carson City. The home was bad there, real shitstain of a place, worse than the one I was in before.” Keith sucks his teeth. “Yeah. Anyways. They didn’t know me, I had learned to keep a pretty low profile by this time. And so, somebody left it---the motorcycle I mean---they left it outside. Unattended.” 

Shiro can just picture the wicked grin on Keith’s face from his voice alone. It makes him smile. Even in the endless dark, the wayward cold. 

“Shiro. It was one of those vintage bikes. The kind that ran on gasoline and everything. Loud as hell. Beautiful. The best thing I ever touched, I thought at the time.” Keith's voice tilts towards admiration and he pauses, just a moment, before continuing. “So they left it outside, right. I saw it and I could only think one thing: now’s my chance. I grabbed an old backpack I had with all my shit, and I got on it and I took off. No money. No plan. Nothing. I got on the 95 and just took off. Fast as I could. I figured nobody would notice one extra kid in Vegas, so I went there. I was thirteen.” 

Keith laughs, a soft huff behind him. 

Shiro tries to imagine: Keith as he was when they met. Quiet, thin, small. Inevitabilities and greatness tucked deep inside. Galra blood in his veins and stars in his eyes. A penchant for acting first and thinking later. (A penchant for stealing vehicles.) It’s no wonder that Shiro fell in love with him. How could anyone overlook Keith Kogane? 

“But yeah,” Keith finishes the story. “They did notice, turns out. That stunt was the reason I got moved back to Arizona.” 

Shiro shakes his head, marveling. “Keith,” 

“I don’t regret it.” Keith says, abruptly. “Shiro, I don’t regret it. Any of it.” 

Shiro stops and Keith rests his forehead against Shiro’s back. He exhales, breath rattling through the comm. “Everything that’s happened to me. All the hard shit I’ve been through. I don’t regret it. All of my mistakes led me to you,” 

There’s hot tears on Shiro’s cold cheeks as he pulls away. As he continues to walk, heavy, desperate, towards the center of his failing ship. He doesn’t, 

He can’t, 

There’s the silence again.

Just the on-going maze of darkness, and Shiro’s own breath in his ears, shallow and labored. Disjointed memories rise to his mind. The way a line of snow lingered in the rectangular shadow of his grandfather’s airplane hangar, refusing to melt. Finding Keith slouched in a shadow of a much larger hanger, years later. The bright expression on his face when Shiro tossed Keith his ID to swipe into the hanger, letting Keith know he’d be a few minutes more but then he’ll be there. That same expression, years later, on Keith’s face, when it’s just the two of them on the couch in the common room aboard the Castleship. Shiro had just told a terrible joke and Keith shoved Shiro’s thigh with his bare foot, snorting in laughter. The laughter dies and then it’s just Keith, dark eyes still teasing, mouth pulled into a grin as he says Shiro’s name. 

Shiro stops, abruptly enough that Keith’s boots scuff the back of his heels. He leans heavier against the wall, he can’t----

“What,” Keith hisses. 

“I feel---” Shiro doubles over, breath knocked out of his lungs. The suit is pinging in his ears, a warning flashing over the concave of his helmet, red text that his vision is too blurry to decipher. He’s been freezing cold, but now his skin is prickling like burning hot, blistering, flushed and shaking with chills. He chokes on cold air and can feel the faltering thump of his heart in his chest. 

Keith has a hand on his back. “Shiro. Shiro, breathe for me.” 

Shiro tries to obey. It’s dark here but behind his eyes, it’s as if light is flaring up. It’s bright. It hurts. “Keith! S-something is wrong.” 

The ground under their feet lurches with a deafening crack. Keith tumbles forward, catching himself against Shiro, his forearm pressed against the wall, the other arm looped around Shiro’s waist. The Blade’s mask shimmers to clear, and suddenly their helmets are pushed together, Keith’s eyes searching his own. Keith is close to panic but trying to stay calm for the both of them, Shiro can tell, even amongst the confusion, the noise, the heat, the cold. His thoughts are swimming as his eyes drift shut and open again. Keith is here. He wishes Keith were here. Keith will be an amazing pilot some day. Keith will---Keith is---Keith has always been a leader at heart. Keith left. Keith in his dreams. Keith at his side. Keith telling Shiro that he loves him, the universe reflected in his eyes. Keith---

Keith is shouting, not at Shiro, but into the comm. It’s like his voice is far away. 

“Pidge says we’re not making good enough time,” he’s saying, and Shiro nods but he doesn’t exactly understand, 

“The core is going to explode,” Keith is telling him, desperate, the panic is closer now. 

If it weren’t for Keith’s arm around him, Shiro might be on the ground, Shiro notices vaguely. He can’t feel his legs. Shiro nods again, his human hand is numb, but the Altean prosthetic rises to press the glass of Keith’s helmet. 

“Shiro,” he’s saying, 

Shiro closes his eyes. 

*


	3. I'm still yours

*

Behind Shiro’s eyes, it’s bright. 

Shiro has seen the stars. Shiro has been so close to a star that he has seen its molten flames lick into the deep dark of space with his own eyes. He’s seen supernovas, he’s witnessed destruction on a cosmic scale. Realities intertwined. Endless death. Incomprehensible rebirth. 

This is a brightness like that. It  _ will _ be, if he allows it to happen. This is a detonation within him, impossible to contain, 

(But Shiro has faced impossibilities before,) 

Behind Shiro’s eyes, it’s loud. Loud like the roar of a plane, like the little twin-engine jet that Shiro learned to fly in. Violent volume drumming within his veins. Vibration thick in his teeth, his hands, deafening to all else. The first time he could really, truly feel firsthand the freedom of flight as the wind swept over the wings. 

It’s familiar. Like the pulse of the black lion, except for nothing in the universe could ever be exactly like that. But this is both within him, and more than he is. Powerful. Infinite, like Black was. Foreign, alien, but also, him. His. 

The Atlas. 

The brightness behind Shiro’s eyes is overwhelming. It’s part anger, part hopelessness. It’s an empty bed in an empty room. Harsh words and the feeling of letting what he wants slip through his fingers. It’s a bitter second chance that he’ll never feel as if he earned. It’s setting his heart aside to try to live up to some unspoken standard. It’s phantom pain and bad memories and a future that seems only to be full of cold, cold days. 

It churns through him, cracking at every fault line. The Atlas is alienating herself from him, as he’s commanded that she do. And in that schism is annihilation. She’s shutting down---

And it would be so easy for Shiro to surrender---

Except. 

_ I am not done, _ Shiro thinks. Argues. He refuses to give up.  _ This is not the end of anything. This is not the beginning of something worse.  _ He tells the Atlas:  _ No. Not like this. We are not done.  _

Shiro opens his eyes and it’s like being in the astral plane---he is not within himself, yet also seeing---but it doesn’t scare him, not now. Keith is with him, still there. Only a moment has passed since Shiro closed his eyes, but he looks at Keith now as if seeing him for the first time in a long time. 

The beautiful angle of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbones. The scar that Shiro put there, a mark which has broken Shiro’s heart in two for as many times as he’s seen Keith’s face since then. The way a strand of hair is matted to Keith’s forehead, stuck there with sweat. Tears swimming unshed in his dark eyes. The shape his mouth makes, lips curved with worry, as he swallows around Shiro’s name. 

Shiro’s limbs are slack, pressed between the bulkheads deep below deck. Only upright thanks to Keith’s arms around him. The brightness churns, amplifies. Shiro stands. He’s solid on his own two feet. Clarity overtakes him. The heart of the Atlas is not far off; but, from here he goes alone. 

The narrow corridor falls away. He leaves Keith behind. The Atlas is stubborn; she won’t allow anyone here except for Shiro. The darkness is gone now. Shiro steps out from between the maintenance pathways into a vast chamber that houses the core of his ship. 

He raises his hand to shade his eyes against the light. 

(When Shiro was called Champion, it was almost like this. 

There was endless dark, the passing of time that he couldn’t measure. No matter how far his life expands from that point, Shiro will remember the way the floor of his cell felt under his feet. The filth of it. The smell, the way it stuck to the insides of his nostrils---congealed blood and burnt flesh and the sharp antiseptic that the prisoners were doused with prior to amputations. A smell that haunts him, will always haunt him. That place, that floor left his palms stained with a gritty black. He’d sit there, numb between matches, jaw set, thoughts cycling, wishing only for a chance to rinse the grime from his skin. 

And then the door to his cell would drop open, and Shiro would be on his feet scrambling (because he’s tried just staying still, refusing to fight, no, no---that doesn’t work), blinking against bright light, brighter light still as he’s paraded out onto the arena floor. With the hot, white lights overhead and only himself and his dirty palms to survive.) 

It was almost like this, but not quite. 

Shiro closes his human hand into a fist and finds that the grime has long since been washed away. He raises his face to the light and instead of an opponent, there is only himself. 

The core of the Atlas is suspended in this chamber. The crystal is cracked, still luminescent but duller than it could be. Shiro breathes deep and the Atlas breathes with him; a shudder trembles throughout the ship. 

The air crackles, the ship lurches; Shiro opens his fist. 

He exhales and the energy within him and above him crashes open wide, sparking through the nexus of conduits that lead out overhead. 

Shiro takes a step forward. The haze of violetgray smoke rolls clear, dropping from the air to around his ankles, sweeping out from this room, dissipating. Lightening claps down from core, chaotic, brilliant, 

Shiro can feel the tips of his fingers and nose again. 

He can feel the power of the Atlas thrumming through him, the same way he could the first time it transformed, 

He feels whole. Present. 

Like record breaking highs on the clearest day, Shiro soaks in the anticipation. He knows what he needs to do. 

He turns his attention to the outermost bow of the ship, where he is moving forward, pushing for peace, discovering,  _ higher farther faster _ , 

The bow where the primary shields originate, keeping his crew safe, his precious family. 

Energy snaps down his nerves as he moves through his ship, dipping in and out of all the pieces of her. The bridge. The Altean styled conference halls, the Olkari greenhouses, the labs that could only be the Holt’s. The barracks, reminiscent of the Garrison, so far away now. The kitchen, where Hunk can work magic when he happens to be aboard. Her training halls which are undeniably Galran. The vast array of power, of weaponry for defense. Shiro restores order to all of these, all the way to her stern, where the landing suites are located, where Keith’s ship is currently docked. Where Keith came back to him. 

The core above him pulses, brighter, brighter, 

The floor levels under his feet. Her engines kick to life, and Shiro feels a smile tug at his lips. 

Power pours from him like unexpected rain, he’s caught in the downpour. And he thinks, 

_ I am alive.  _

When Shiro comes back to himself, it takes a moment. He finds himself standing below the core, all the conduits twisting out from that center over his head. Shiro doesn’t need access to a computer terminal to tell him that his ship is back in working order. 

He feels weary, but it’s the good kind of tired. Like sparring, like after a long run. Not the wrung out exhaustion that weighs down his mind. 

He begins to walk out of the central chamber, the Atlas not quite gone from the edges of his mind. 

Keith meets him before he takes even three steps. 

“Shiro!!” 

Keith tackles him, and Shiro laughs, taking it in stride. He stumbles backwards with Keith in his arms, and using the momentum to pick him up, he spins them both around. He feels light on his feet. He feels happy. 

“What did you---Shiro, you’re---I felt---are you okay?” Keith is breathless as Shiro sets him back down on the ground. He raises a hand to touch the side of Shiro’s helmet. 

Shiro nods, breathing out a laugh. A smile. His hands are still on Keith’s waist. “I feel good. It was like,” he thinks of a way to describe the indescribable, “forming Voltron. Piloting Black.” 

“Yeah?” Keith looks awed, “You---Shiro, that’s amazing. You’re amazing.” 

Between Shiro’s face and Keith’s, a blue message unfurls. The notification on his helmet comm tells Shiro that the bridge is hailing him. 

“Better answer that, Captain,” Keith teases, stepping away. 

Communications are fully restored, it seems. Within a matter of moments, three holoscreens are floating in front of Shiro---the lead engineers, Allura and Lance on the bridge, and Pidge on Earth. The engineers have questions about the ship’s integrity, Allura wants to make sure that Shiro is not overly drained from the ‘quintessence manipulation,’ and Pidge wants to know  _ exactly _ what happened. 

Soon another screen shimmers into view; Hunk was able to contact neighboring planets and it seems any number of them would be thrilled to host the crew of the Atlas should the need arise. In another moment a group of Shiro’s lead officers are huddled in front of their own screen, fully suited up and apparently ready to go below decks, though it would be against orders, to rescue their captain. 

“We’re headed back now,” Shiro tells them all, pride, and relief, and, yes, happiness rising in his chest. 

The maintenance pathways aren’t nearly so imposing now that the overhead lights have been restored. Shiro and Keith make their way back to the upper decks in half the time it took before, now that Shiro’s limbs aren’t weighed down with cold. 

Once more on the bridge, there’s plenty to be done to get the Atlas back up and running. Shiro takes his position as the captain, issuing orders, taking care of his crew. His ship. He feels like he is present. Like he is doing what he should be. 

He doesn’t realize that Keith slips away. 

He doesn’t realize that Keith is still planning to leave until he gets the message from the docking bay that the Ariv is launching. 

*

_ Keith leaves the Atlas after the war because he can be useful elsewhere.  _

_ He leaves because his mother and Kolivan will be journeying to Daibaazal soon, and there is a part of Keith, deep inside, that wants to know where he comes from.  _ Wants.  _ There was a time when he was desperate, and he felt that he  _ had  _ to know. The need was circling inside of him, ready to claw its way out, ready to hurt. This isn’t like that. This is a curiosity that he has the ability to indulge. And. He hasn’t told anybody, not yet, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn to speak Galran?  _

_ He leaves because there are kids out there like he was, kids who are alone. Kids whose lives have been turned inside out and shredded because of the war. Keith knows firsthand that an adult, however well meaning they might be, swooping in and acting like nothing is wrong and that  _ everything will make more sense in the morning _ \---that doesn’t help. Real miracles take time. Care. Resources. But, even so, he can do his part. He can try.  _

_ He leaves because he can’t imagine a future of endless small plate hors devours and stuffy diplomats and remembering the names of the six crown princes of Screw-This-Dude-He-Was-Rude-to-Allura planet.  _

_ He leaves because there’s nothing in the universe like the feeling of weightlessness that comes from an impossible dive, a physics defying turn. The rush of adrenaline from racing through a belt of asteroids. The giddy power, the dizzying speed, the thrill, the freedom of flying. He thinks that the stars will never stop calling to him.  _

_ Keith leaves the Atlas after the war for many reasons, but mostly he leaves because Shiro doesn’t ask him to stay.  _

_ * _

_ It’s just a few short weeks since the final battle against Zarkon’s witch. The lions are gone. The war is over. Everything is changing so quickly---life after that battle feels different. New roles, new problems. Hunk is the one who brings it up first.  _

_ He and Keith are together in one of the smaller aircraft hangars aboard the Atlas. There’s only a couple ships docked here, and for whatever reason, Hunk has made fixing this particular one his pet project for the moment. Keith thinks that he just likes to have something to do with his hands. But he and Keith are kinda the same that way, so Keith doesn’t mind helping. The grunt work is satisfying, especially because Hunk does most of the talking, happy to order Keith around while he tinkers.  _

_ “I mean, I figure, two, maybe three months, probably,” Hunk is saying.  _

_ “Huh?” Keith hasn’t really been listening.  _

_ Hunk pokes his head out of the engine. His hair is sticking up, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Three months. That’s probably how much longer I’ll stay. I mean, part of me wants to leave, like, now,” he laughs, the nervous one that means he’s being honest, “But there’s lots of loose ends to tie up and I don’t feel like it would be right just yet.”  _

_ “You’re leaving?” Keith asks. He sets down the ratchet he was using and wipes his hands on his pants legs.  _

_ “Well.” Hunk cocks his head to one side and looks at Keith. “Yeah.” He scratches the side of his face and manages to get a swipe of motor grease across his cheek. “We probably all will, Keith.”  _

_ This is the first Keith has heard of it.  _

_ “I mean, I know Allura can’t wait to get back to New Altea, not that any of us blame her. She’s gonna be a great queen. From there she’ll head the Coalition.”  _

_ Keith nods.  _

_ “Yeah, and Lance will follow her wherever she goes. That’s a given at this point. And me and Pidge have already started brainstorming about the new Holt labs.” Hunk flexes his biceps and grins at himself. “It’s pretty much up to just us to get Earth tech up to speed, you know?”  _

_ Keith smiles. “You guys can handle it.”  _

_ “Of course.” Hunk says, going back to his tools. “But mostly I can’t wait to see my family. Be back home.” He hums a little, refocusing on what he was doing before he ducks his head back into the ship. His voice is muffled when he says, “Have you thought about what you wanna do? I figured you’d go back to the Blade guys.”  _

_ “Oh. Yeah.” Keith drops his gaze down to his boots. He hadn’t really. He supposes it's naive to think that things can just carry on as they have been. That’s never been the case so far in his life.  _

_ * _

_ ‘The Blade Guys’  _ are  _ in need of a leader, Keith thinks, later that night as he’s lying in bed. He has his knife in his palm, passing in back and forth between his hands while he thinks. The space wolf snorts out a snore next to him. It’s late, but Keith doesn’t feel like sleeping.  _

_ It’s late then, but it’s later still, closer to morning that not, when Keith hears Shiro’s footsteps outside his door. There’s the quiet tap of the keypad as Shiro enters the code to his own quarters (28051959---the date that Able and Baker, the first living creatures to successfully return from space, launched. Keith knows that it’s been the combination to every lock that Shiro’s ever set. He also knows that Shiro had fish at the Garrison named Able and Baker who were not nearly so lucky as their namesakes.).  _

_ Keith scoots the space wolf out of the way to roll over in bed and check the time on his comm. 0316 hours. Considering Shiro’s early mornings, that means he’ll get only a couple of hours of sleep at most. He sighs.  _

_ But. It’s not for Keith to worry about. If Shiro needs help...well he’s made it clear he doesn’t want it from Keith.  _

_ They’ve drifted apart. It hurts Keith to admit it, but it’s true. There was no defining moment, just a steady disconnect. Like the way a crack moved so slow across the windshield of his dad’s old pickup one summer. A tiny fissure one day, and then, later, it had somehow crept across the entire length of glass. So slow it was almost all at once. Keith’s not sure what he might have done to cause the initial break, or how he might have repaired it early on. Only that he missed his chance.  _

_ Shiro is stunning at the helm of the Atlas, Keith thinks.  _

_ He’s every bit the Admiral that his uniform says that he is (and the pressed double-breasted jacket over Shiro’s broad shoulders never fails to leave Keith dry mouthed with want, but, he’s finally accepted that’s something that’s never going to happen,), commanding the bridge like it’s what he was born to do. He juggles the politics of the Coalition with the grace of a diplomat, almost as well as Allura herself. Even now, outside of wartime, Shiro is remarkable. Kind, and just, and brave. Keith loves him more everyday.  _

_ It’s because he loves him that he notices things like Shiro getting to his room late. The delicate swipe of purple under his eyes. The way his laugh is less full. The tension he holds in his back.  _

_ And it hurts, to see it, and not be able to do anything. It hurts when Shiro treats Keith like just another officer---respectful, gracious. Distant. It hurts when Shiro is so busy that Keith has to send him a message just to ask him if he wants to spend an hour together during shore leave---and the reply is automated. The reply is no.  _

_ Shiro doesn’t touch him anymore.  _

_ Keith pulls the blanket over his shoulders and settles deeper into his bed aboard the Atlas. That’s probably the worst part of it. As a kid he was so eager for the gentle way Shiro placed a hand between his shoulder blades. Tugged at his hair when it grew out over his eyes. Tapped the back of his hand over Keith’s shoulder, impatient for him to listen. As he got older, Keith was greedy for it. Nudging Shiro during meetings. Heady with the feel of him on the training mat. Lingering in every embrace.  _

_ The last time that Keith returned from a mission, Shiro shook his hand.  _

_ It made Keith angry. Not necessarily just at Shiro, but at himself too. For hurting so much when Shiro’s palm eclipsed his own. For wanting so much more.  _

_ The mission was a grueling one; Keith led four Blade soldiers through a satellite cynosur off the planet Eclipsha. There were complications. Peace throughout the universe is a pretty thing to say, but Keith can already see that there’s so much work still to be done. But he led his team and returned from the mission successful and tired. And Shiro shook his hand.  _

_ Frustration boiling in his blood, he dragged his exhausted ass to the furthest training deck---one that Shiro never frequents---and proceeded to destroy the simulator in level after level after level. ‘Til his hair was matted with sweat, and the wound he sustained during the mission reopened, soaking the bandages through. It wasn’t until his hands were shaking from the weight of his blade that he finally collapsed.  _

_ Keith knows that isn’t what he wants. He knows that isn’t what Shiro wants. He knows it isn’t fair to either of them. And he knows that he can’t force Shiro to let him in. _

_ * _

_ A few nights after his conversation with Hunk, Keith is up late. He’s in the mess hall.  _

_ More specifically, the freezer.  _

_ Stealing ice cream.  _

_ (Technically it’s against regulation to sneak food after hours. Especially if the food is their very limited supply of chocolate ice cream. But Keith knows that he won’t be caught. And even if he was, he knows that he can handle any of the Atlas crew ballsy enough to call him out on it.)  _

_ He walks out of the freezer with the spoon already in his mouth, holding the bowl in one hand. He’s careful to press the door shut without making a noise. He turns over the latch and feels the sweet thrill of victory. Now all that’s left is to take his dessert back to his quarters--- _

_ “Keith?”  _

_ Keith shoves another spoonful in his mouth because if he’s going to be caught, he’ll still finish his prize damnit,  _

_ But it’s Shiro who’s standing in the officers’ kitchenette. He has a bag of coffee grounds in one hand and the box of filters in the other.  _

_ Keith blinks at him. Raises his hand in a wave.  _

_ “Keith. You--You’re looking good.”  _

_ Keith looks down at himself. He’s barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants, and a Garrison PE shirt that he nicked from the laundry room. It’s too big for him, probably Kinkade’s.  _

_ He takes the spoon out of his mouth. “Thanks?”  _

_ Shiro sets the coffee filters down and puts a hand across his forehead. He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m tired.” He sighs and straightens up to pour the appropriate amount of water in the coffeemaker. Even from across the room, Keith can see how much stress he’s holding in his shoulders. “Hence, the coffee.”  _

_ “Thought you couldn’t drink coffee,” Keith remarks, joining Shiro in the kitchen. (He remembers early mornings at the Garrison, Shiro lamenting over shitty tea. ‘Lipton,’ he sighed, settling down next to Keith outside the sim hanger. They met there most mornings to fit in extra practice before Keith had class and Shiro had lectures. ‘The commissary only stocks Lipton.’) _

_ Keith licks at the back of his spoon. The artificial chocolate is sweet in his mouth, almost cloying next to the bland nutrition packets to which he’s grown accustomed. It makes his teeth ache. He takes another bite.  _

_ Shiro nods. “I wasn’t supposed to, after starting the treatments.” The allusion to his illness is not lost on Keith. He says it casually, but he also picks up the datapad on the counter and gives it a cursory poke to avoid looking Keith in the face. Keith sees that he’s halfway through what seems to be a difficult report.  _

_ “But.” Shiro continues, setting the datapad to the side. He looks sideways at Keith, mouth not quite committing to a smile. “That’s not a problem anymore, right? Special refurbished model,” _

_ “Shiro.”  _

_ The coffee steams and percolates, the first drips splashing into the pot. Shiro opens one of the cabinets and takes down a mug. He sets it down and turns to look at Keith. His posture is stiff, impersonal. “So. Keith. How are you doing?”  _

_ It’s strained.  _

_ It’s as if Keith is supposed to pretend that he doesn’t know anything about Shiro. Like he doesn’t remember about the shitty Lipton tea. He doesn’t know about the sleepless nights. He doesn’t crave Shiro against him, their bodies made to fit together. Like they haven’t been on the edge of this for so, so long.  _

_ And even if the intimacy of a relationship is not what Shiro wants from him, they’re still friends right? Keith can still say that, at least, right? But this,  _

_ This is just not how friends talk to each other. Shiro is asking only because he has nothing else to say. This is where they are.  _

_ Keith straightens up to match him. Like he’s in full uniform instead of stolen gym shirts and hand-me-down sweats. Like they’re on the bridge, in front of a roomful of people. Like his heart isn’t broken from this, a stupid conversation in the middle of the night. “I’m good. Sir.” He continues, “And yourself?”  _

_ Keith can see Shiro swallow, hesitate. “That’s good Keith. I’m glad to hear it.”  _

_ Keith nods. A beat of silence falls between them. The coffee pot hisses.  _

_ This isn’t like the frustration of the handshake. Or the smart of the automated reply. This is deeper.  _

_ “I’m joining the Blades full time.” Keith says. He hadn’t decided, but. As soon as the words leave his mouth, they’re true.  _

_ He’s watching Shiro for a reaction. And maybe it’s cruel to do this to him, to say it like this. But Keith is used to having to fend for himself. So he says it and tries to take what he needs.  _

_ Except. Shiro shows no signs of disappointment. He doesn’t even look surprised when he meets Keith’s gaze. “You’ll be great, Keith,” he says, his voice gentle. He clears his throat and nods. “Never hesitate to reach out if you need anything. The Coalition is lucky to have a powerful ally in the Blades.”  _

_ “Yes sir,” Keith responds. He’s too focused on holding back the monster of emotion in his chest to focus on the rest of the conversation. He leaves the mess hall. He doesn’t realize until his bedroom door is shut behind him, and he unclenches his hands, and sinks down on the edge of the bed, willing himself not to cry---he left his ice cream on the counter.  _

_ * _

_ He leaves less than a week later.  _

_ He is the first of the paladins to break away---before Hunk and Pidge leave for Earth, before Lance and Allura spend time on New Altea.  _

_ Keith leaves the Atlas with the same duffle bag he retrieved from his cabin the last time he was on Earth. He walks with his head held high, towards the hangar where a Galran made ship is waiting for him. He leaves behind his Garrison uniform, his datapad, the medals he’s been awarded as a Paladin of Voltron. He leaves behind a part of his heart.  _

_ And he trusts, as he breaks free of the Atlas to find his own way. He flies and he trusts that he and Shiro will find each other again. He trusts Shiro. With everything he is. And all the stars ahead.  _

*

It is just shy of half a varga after Shiro gets the notification that the Ariv left his ship, that Shiro phones the Garrison’s private internal line. It’s supposed to funnel him directly to the top brass, but of course, he speaks first with a secretary:

“Commander Tylor is taking a personal day this afternoon, unfortunately,” the cadet tells Shiro, sounding as though it is not at all unfortunate from his point of view. Maybe it’s that he sees some accolades of Shiro’s on the back wall of Shiro’s office, or just Shiro’s expression, but he tacks on a belated, “Sir.” at the end. 

“Oh I think he’ll want to take this call,” Shiro comments, raising his gaze from his datapad. He finishes the thought he was typing, and glances back up at the squirming cadet on the screen. “Let him know that Admiral Shirogane of the USS Atlas is on the line. I’ll wait.” 

The cadet blinks, mouth parting just slightly before he nods. He gives a nervous salute and the video feed flips to a generic screen with the Galaxy Garrison’s logo, complete with hold music. 

Shiro continues to pluck away at the datapad. The hold music is just starting to grate on his nerves when it cuts off abruptly. The call is patched into a bland room with some nondescript art in a gaudy frame hanging on the wall. Maybe a hotel or a country club. It looks like it was unaffected by the Galran occupation---many, many homes and places of business were completely ransacked, so this place must have been ritzy enough to buy their way into safety. It’s not surprising, considering the Garrison’s track record for corruption. 

A few second pass and the Commander can be heard off screen speaking to an aide. From the sounds of it, Shiro interrupted his afternoon game of golf. 

“Shirogane,” Tylor says when he sits down. If he’s surprised, or even annoyed by the impromptu call, he hides it well. 

“Commander Tylor,” Shiro says with a nod. “Thank you for taking my call despite your hectic schedule. As I’m sure you can imagine, we don’t keep exactly the same kind of regimented hours you all do planetside.” 

Tylor draws his lips back in a way that could pass as a smile, if he had any practice with the expression. “No doubt. It’s one of the adjustments you’ll have to make when you return to Earth, my boy. But easy enough. Two weeks here and you’ll have forgotten you ever left.” 

Shiro unbuttons the collar of his uniform. “About that.” He signs the letter he’s been typing up on the datapad and sends it to the Commander’s office. “Please consider this my official resignation as an officer of the Galaxy Garrison.” 

The man opens and closes his mouth, the broken purple veins in his cheeks flaring red. Shiro privately thinks he looks remarkably like a species of alien that he saw in the Gyolr system, but that’s rude to the aliens. 

Eventually the man regains his voice: 

“Shirogane!” He slams his fist down on the desk with so much force that the monitor shakes. (The Commander is not known for his temperate disposition). “What the  _ hell  _ are you thinking! You can’t be serious! If this is a fucking joke, I want you know that---” 

Shiro raises a hand. If it happens to be the Altean prosthetic, glowing meanancely, well. “Sir. This is not a decision I made lightly. And it is not a joke.” 

Tylor is angry. He’s beyond angry. He’s yelling so loud that bits of spittle fly out of his mouth onto the desk at which he’s sitting: “This position is an  _ honor _ . You have a lot of nerve, boy---if you do this to me, I’ll have you know that this kind of opportunity will  _ never _ come your way again. I’ll make sure of it---personally. I can’t believe your fucking stupidity here, Shirogane. What I would have done for a chance like this! At your age! The compensation alone---you think you can do better?! You’re a fool---” 

Shiro lets him have his tantrum uninterrupted. When the commander is done, he replies, 

“The Garrison has done so much for me in my career, sir. They also falsified my death, lied to my colleagues, planned to experiment on my body, and sold out the planet for the advancement of a fascist alien empire. But, sir. I appreciate the honor.” 

Tylor is doing the mouth-open-alien-thing again. He manages, “Shirogane,” 

Shiro folds his hands. Looks straight into Tylor’s face. “Honored though I am, my decision is made. It’s non negotiable.” 

The Commander changes tactics so quickly, Shiro has to commend him:

“Th-there’s no one else more qualified---surely you must know that. This position is integral to our military’s prowess. Integral. We developed it to keep our country  _ safe. _ Your country  _ needs _ you. Hell, Shirogane, your planet needs you!” 

Shiro nods. “Absolutely. And, sir, you can rest easy knowing that the Atlas will remained allied to the Earth, so long as the Earth complies with the very reasonable statutes set forth within the Coalition---” 

Tylor sputters. “You-you can’t  _ possibly _ think that you’ll be keeping the ship! It must be returned to the Earth---it is the official property of the United States Space Federation. We’ll take it back by force if we have to!”

(The Atlas thrums under Shiro’s skin.) 

“With all due respect, sir.” Shiro leans forward and smiles, just slightly. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Commander Tylor ends the call.

Shiro slumps back in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair. Snorts. 

Shakes his head. A laugh escapes. 

He  _ feels _ the relief---really feels it, in a physical sense, almost like a solid weight was caught in his chest and it’s been removed. The noose around his neck is gone. He can breathe easy. 

He did that. He’s free. 

Shiro stands. There’s so much else to do---

He’ll have to tell his crew; of course if they prefer to leave, he’ll arrange safe passage for them back home. He has enough connections---Commander Tylor aside---to ensure that none of them are negatively affected by his desertion. He’ll have to tell Allura. Speak with the other core members of the Coalition. Draft a new mission statement. Figure out where they’re going next. 

But for now. There’s only one thing. 

He has to find Keith. 

*

_ Keith doesn’t see the drak until it’s right on top of him---he swats the controls, sending the nice little cutter he’s flying into a hard left and a sharp dive. She’s what they’re calling a HMC cutter (‘High Mobility Custom’) and the extra power under her hood is worth every penny, as far as he’s concerned. This is his first time in this particular model, but he’s impressed with it so far. He’ll mention it to his team when things calm down, and maybe the Blades will be adding one or two new ships to their fleet.  _

_ His ship careens downward, until it doesn’t: he spins her around, frag propulsion flaring from the triplicate engine, and shoots.  _

_ The drak---an enemy droid, unmanned---goes up in a flare of emerald fire. Keith continues, a blur of speed and fire. He sweeps the area, leaving a league of draken destroyed in his wake.  _

_ “Rux!” One of Keith’s team hails him. He’s using a Galran word for leader, ‘druxan,’ and the sound of it makes Keith smile, even in the middle of this unexpected dogfight. It’s a casual, affectionate title, common slang, and it’s only been recently that his team started calling him that.  _

_ “Rux! Can you get a lock on my signal? I’m fighting heavy fire, request cover!”  _

_ Keith punches in the coordinates, finding his distressed teammate amongst the firefight. “On my way,” Keith reassures, “Hang tight,”  _

_ He finds the soldier surrounded, not just by draken, but also trying to outrun one of the much larger enemy ships. This kind is manned, Keith knows, so as he jets down, he’s careful to lay fire only on the Hizak’s guns and secondary engines. It’ll be dead in the water, but there shouldn’t be casualties as long as the crew is smart.  _

_ The battle continues on; Keith and his team were flying through this area in hopes of confirming a viable resource for the planet they’re currently aiding. He didn’t expect a fight, at least not this far out. Projections from his team assured him that the sector was neutral territory, but maybe he should have known better; this sector had a history of infighting. Even when under Zarkon’s rule, there were multiple factions of Galran delegations---now that the Empire has crumbled, evidently the infighting has only worsened. It’s basically devolved into a couple of gangs. And right now the presence of the Blades is only making things worse.  _

_ “Fall back,” Keith commands, covering his team as they make a retreat. Once everyone gets to safety, they’ll regroup and decide if the possible resources here are worth pursuing amongst the violent backdrop.  _

_ * _

_ He exits the cutter, once more at the base the Blades have been using for this system. They’ve already done a lot of good here, helped a lot of people. Keith is proud of his team.  _

_ “Captain, sir, I heard about the fight! Is everybody okay??” Lavk, a young Blade, comes bounding up to Keith as soon as Keith’s feet touch the ground.  _

_ “Just Keith is fine,” Keith reminds him. “Yeah, we’re all good. Thanks for looking out.”  _

_ “Of course, sir! I mean, Keith,” Lavk nods, his large eyes full of unconcealed admiration. His complexion is the palest purple and he’s just a little bit fluffier than the average Galran. He’s half, like Keith, but still far too young for combat. When Keith first met him, the kid was a lot quieter. He had no place to go, so Keith took him in to live with the Blades. Lavk’s planet was destroyed by Zarkon’s regime, but his time with the Blades has given him new hope. Keith has a soft spot for kids anyways, but Lavk especially is sweet. He’s a good kid.  _

_ “Oh!”  _

_ Keith raises his eyebrows as Lavk fumbles around in his pockets until he pulls out a comm device.  _

_ “I was supposed to tell you,” he waves the comm around, “You have a long distance message, so you’re supposed to go back to Control as soon as you can.”  _

It’s probably Hunk, _ Keith decides as he makes his way back to the command center. Hunk calls him about once a xeib just because he likes to keep in touch. Pidge’s messages are more random, and tend to be incredibly convoluted. His mom’s are brief, but frequent. Allura’s notes are thorough, though impersonal---kind of like reading a newsletter? And Lance’s messages are total gibberish, just jokes that don’t make sense. Like yesterday he just sent a bizarre photo of an ugly piece of fruit and the caption, ‘you.’ Keith largely ignores him.  _

_ He rarely hears from Shiro.  _

_ (He misses him. It's a constant, familiar ache. Almost comforting in it’s familiarity, the way he carries it with him. There are times when the remembering, the missing, is harder. Some days where Keith  _ wants  _ so bad that he gets in his cruiser and plots a course and thinks,  _ I could do it. I could go back.  _ He never does. On those hard days at least he knows that Shiro is safe. There are nights, difficult nights, nights where he thinks about time, and distance, and all the words he’s hanging onto, while staring up at his ceiling, wondering if Shiro is meant to be sleeping too. If he’s happy.  _

_ It’s different than the ache that settled deep under his ribs in the desert. The fervent, unfounded hope that drove him. _

_ It’s different than the grief crawling up his throat in the black lion at the thought of Shiro being gone. The inevitability of moving forward without him.  _

_ This is less sinister. Less vast. He misses Shiro, some days more profoundly than others. But it’s nothing new.)  _

_ “Captain!”  _

_ “Rux!”  _

_ Keith nods to his fellow Blades as he walks through the corridors. They’ll reconvene for a debrief later, but for now the mishmash of soldiers and displaced civilians have freetime.  _

_ “Keith!”  _

_ Keith lifts a hand in a wave. “Nice work out there,”  _

_ “Nice work yourself!!” The pilot shoots back. “You were unstoppable in that HMC!”  _

_ Keith grins. “I want one!”  _

_ After a good bit of small talk, Keith finally makes it back to Control, which is really just a cramped room next to his sleeping quarters. Keith is an ‘actions over reports’ kinda leader, and he doesn’t spend much time in the office. It’s small, but he makes it work.  _

_ Door closed behind him, Keith logs into the more powerful terminal that can receive communications from vast distances away. He pulls a leg up into his seat, resting his chin against his knee while he waits for the screen to load. His fingers drum over the keyboard. He’s thinking that if he plays his cards right, he can probably get Torvaz to cook something homemade for dinner, instead of ration packets again,  _

_ His foot drops to the floor.  _

_ The communication is from the Atlas. He sits up straight.  _

_ From Shiro.  _

_ His heart is battering in his chest. Keith lets out a breath, one long, shaky exhale. He taps at the screen.  _

Keith, 

_ It reads,  _

I hope this message finds you well. It’s been awhile. This is a lot to ask, I realize, but would you be willing to rendezvous with the Atlas during the Ijani conference? I know that the Blades are doing good work in this system. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you in person if possible. Hope to see you soon. S. 

_ Keith bites his lip as he reads the message a second, and then a third time. The constant way he misses Shiro hits him now like a punch to the gut, but it’s tinged with a kind of disappointment too. They’ve communicated so rarely since he left. After all this time, this isn’t the message he would have hoped to get. He clicks the screen to black and settles back into the chair, head tilted back to view the canopy of stars overhead.  _

_ Will he return to the Atlas now that Shiro’s asked him to?  _

_ These past eight months---and so what if he knows the number of days it’s been since he walked away from the Atlas?---have been good for Keith. He’s learned about Galran culture, even learned to speak a little of the language. He’s made important political gains side-by-side with his mother. He’s shed blood with his team, but he’s also learned to laugh with them, problem solve with them, earned their respect. He’s forged connections in a way that he never used to be able to manage. He’s proud of the good that he’s doing. He doesn’t regret leaving. It was the right decision.  _

_ But one emotion rises out of latency in his chest, enduring longer and burning more feverishly than any other. And Keith knows what he’s meant to do.  _

_ The next morning, Keith is on his way.  _

*

Approximately three varga after Shiro launches from the Atlas, he spots Keith’s signal. He breathes out a happy sigh of relief at seeing the familiar token of the Ariv on his nav screen. Keith had a long head start, but Shiro was determined. He found him. 

Shiro is in one of the deep space jets---it’s not remarkably alien, but not distinctly from the Atlas fleet either. Keith may or may not recognize it as one of Shiro’s. That doesn’t really matter. Shiro selected it for one reason and one reason alone: speed. 

He can tell that Keith sees him approach, but based on the way he sends out a generic message instead of hailing Shiro’s ship, Keith doesn’t recognize it as being Shiro. The Ariv’s shields shimmer into view---however, it’s obvious that Keith is not priming any weapons. Even in the midst of a possible assailant. For someone else, it might be a foolish move, but Keith isn’t overly trusting. And he isn’t trying to play it cool either; he simply knows that there’s no one in the galaxy who can outfly him. 

Well. Shiro will see about  _ that. _ Shiro tries, and fails, to contain an idiotic sort of smile. He diverts all extraneous energy to his jet’s sleek engines. He lays on the speed. 

In an instant, he’s on top of Keith, zinging down through Keith’s trajectory in a maneuver that could only be described as reckless. The Ariv is much smaller than the Atlas, of course, but Shiro’s jet is a pocket toy compared to her. And he just sent it within a hand’s breadth of Keith’s powerful ship. He could have been crushed, or worse, had the timing been wrong, or if Keith wasn’t so uniquely gifted. Not many pilots would have both the reaction time and the skill to compensate, but Keith does. He pulls back, the Ariv’s jets flaring as if in anger. 

Shiro wrenches his controls, jamming his thrusters so that he swings back around, the nose of his plane facing Keith. The snap of the move leaves him breathless, but he’s still grinning as his aircraft slides up the oblique, out and and away. 

It’s a taunt, it’s a tease. He knows that Keith will get the message: 

“Wanna race?” 

Between one heartbeat and the next, faster than Shiro can process, Keith is past him. He takes off like a shot, out, out into open space. 

Shiro can’t help but admire it, the way Keith flies. It’s intuitive and free. Giddy and wild, fire-filled and smart. Beautiful. 

But, 

Shiro doesn’t let him enjoy the lead for long. He’s after him, taking advantage of the smaller scale of his aircraft to slip underneath and up ahead. It’s a nasty move----but Shiro never promised to play nice. He can tell that Keith is scoffing by the way he kicks the Ariv up, ready to send her tummelting down, cutting Shiro off. 

Shiro throws his jet into a spin, sailing past Keith the other way. 

He can picture the way Keith’s eyes are shimmering, competitive and amused. The way he’s biting his lip, grinning, laying fast hands over the controls. The sound of his laugh, the way it trickles into how he says Shiro’s name. 

Shiro loves him. 

He flies further, he flies faster, his heart is full. He’s thinking of Keith. 

Keith chases, a bold display of confidence. Hard won skill and ridiculous talent. 

Shiro can’t shake him---until. He breaks away. He settles steady hands over the controls. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Eases the throttle down. 

He drops. 

Deep, deep, into the darkness of space, 

He drops, nosediving into endless nothing, so fast his stomach rises to his chest, and his heart rises to his throat, and it’s there in that feeling, 

the rush, the joy, the trust, the love, 

Shiro flies. 

Shiro has flown for so much. He’s flown for everyone, for Earth, for hope, for progress. He’s flown for Voltron, for good, for peace. He’s flown for everything, and he’s flown for Keith too. But right now, this, 

This is just for him. 

Shiro flies and it’s the easiest joy, the widest blue, the most enduring love. He dips out of the dive like it’s second nature. Graceful, powerful, right. Keith is with him, matching him movement for movement. The two of them twist through the stars, vast distances apart and nothing in between, and everything, all of it, for them. Together. 

They fly until Shiro takes them down, an easy descent onto a land he doesn’t know. Amber clouds part to reveal a dusty colored earth. Two moons hang large against the blueblack sky as he steps out of his ship. He’s smiling. 

And then this part is familiar: 

“Shiro!” Keith is breathless as he jumps down from the landing platform before it’s even fully descended. He lifts off his helmet, shucking it behind him. His hair is a mess. The color is high in his cheeks. “How did---and! That was--!” 

Shiro laughs. “But did you know it was me?” 

Incredulous, Keith steps into Shiro’s open arms. “Who else could it have been?” He asks, as Shiro pulls him close. He ducks his face, breath warm against Shiro’s neck. “It couldn’t have been anyone else.” 

“Keith,” Shiro says. 

He hears Keith swallow, throat tight. He holds Shiro closer, one hand curled into a fist, fingertips buried at Shiro’s back. It sounds like longing. Like words unsaid. Like an old promise that’s never quite been broken.

Shiro’s hand comes to rest against Keith’s face, curled gently against his jaw. His thumb brushes careful against the scar. “I love you,” he says. 

He feels Keith tense in his arms. Slowly, painstakingly, pull away. But not out of reach. Just enough to look into Shiro’s face. 

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice comes out hoarse. He is so strong. He’s grown into someone confident, vibrant, gorgeous. Determined. He’s saved Shiro so many times. But at this moment, Shiro has never seen Keith look more fragile. 

“Oh Keith,” Shiro sighs. Keith’s hand is against his chest. He picks it up, still so small in his prosthetic, and kisses Keith’s palm. He’s thinking of taking this hand, so long ago, and giving Keith the promise of never giving up. He had no idea those would be the words that saved him. He smiles against Keith’s fingers and tries to imagine how it felt then, to not yet know that his heart was utterly given to Keith Kogane. He can’t. “I finally caught up. Tell me I’m not too late.” 

Keith takes his hand away, only to place it against Shiro’s cheek. His other hand too, both cradling Shiro’s face. He looks up at him, with all the conviction, all the promise he’s always given. Fragility turns into certainty. “Shiro. I love you.” 

Shiro leans in at the same time that Keith’s hands are pulling him close. He kisses him. He can feel the pull of Keith’s inhale as his lips part---so far from reckless now. Just steady, steady as Shiro kisses him. Shiro is gentle about it, soft lips, open mouth. Slow, tasting what it is to have Keith like this. 

His heart is thundering in his chest, pulse thumping in his ears as his hands settle heavy over Keith’s solid waist. He is present in this moment, only here, only this: hot mouth and hotter blood, the surprising sharp of Keith’s teeth, the plush of his lips, the drag of his tongue. 

Shiro pauses, mouth just barely parted from Keith’s. He’s lightheaded, he’s giddy. He rolls his tongue between his lips, smiles against Keith’s cheek. “Keith, I love you,” he says again, just because he can, just before pressing a kiss to Keith’s jaw. 

Keith makes a noise. Almost a whine. Wanting. He turns his head, catching Shiro’s mouth again. 

Shiro holds him, one hand now at the small of Keith’s back, the other at the back of his head, fingers caught in Keith’s dark hair.  _ I’ll give it to you,  _ he’s telling Keith, mouth insistent against his now. He holds him.  _ Whatever you want. Everything I am.  _

Keith shifts, pulling Shiro closer, tucking his arm around Shiro’s neck, pulling him down. He kisses like he does everything else: instinctual, unrefined, direct. Honest. Just so exactly Keith. 

There’s a pulse on Shiro’s arm and he parts from Keith just enough to look down and find a holoscreen hovering above his forearm. A message blinks in yellow. His O2 saturation isn’t what it should be. The atmosphere here is thin. 

“That explains the lightheaded feeling,” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s temple. He’s smiling all crooked because of his own quip, stupid with happiness. 

“I just thought that’s how it felt,” Keith breaths, leaning against Shiro’s chest. He looks up at Shiro, almost shy. 

God, Shiro’s heart might burst like this. 

He looks into Keith’s face---half pout, half defiant, a flush spread over his cheeks, lips still glossy---and he can’t help but duck down, smiling, ready to catch Keith’s mouth again, to leave them both breathless, 

Keith stops him, fingers pressed against Shiro’s mouth. There’s humor in his dark eyes. “Inside,” he says. 

And Shiro follows Keith’s long stride up the deck to the Ariv---his gaze is easily caught in Keith’s tapered waist, long legs, cute ass. Confident. Devastating. Shiro bites his kiss bruised lips.  _ Fuck.  _ How can this be real? How can this have taken so long? 

The door rises shut behind them, settling down into place with a hiss and a click. Shiro takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, 

The breath is knocked out of him as Keith steps forward, pulling him down, kissing him again. It’s not desperate exactly, but fierce. Heated. He has his hips slotted against Shiro’s, has Shiro pushed against the door of the ship. Ruthless in the way his arms are clutching Shiro tight, the sharp way his mouth is over Shiro. 

It’s a storm that Shiro is all too happy to be caught in, the smell of Keith, the feel of his hands, the tangle of them together. Dark heat pools in Shiro’s gut. He finds it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of Keith against him. So intense. So eager. 

But. 

Shiro pulls himself away from that precipice---he’s ready to careen off the edge, fall wildly into this. But there’s one more thing first. “Keith,” he says, drawing away just enough to speak. 

Keith hums, intent on not responding, intent on getting his mouth back on Shiro. 

Shiro smiles against him. He carefully withdraws from Keith’s hold, pushes lightly against Keith’s shoulders. “Hang on a minute.” 

Keith frowns, pulling a face. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Yeah?” 

It’s an artless gesture that Shiro has seen many times before, but never quite like this. 

Shiro grins, betraying himself as he presses another kiss to the edge of Keith’s frown. He pushes a lock of Keith’s hair behind his ear from where his hands have mussed it. “I declined the promotion to Earth,” Shiro whispers. The thrill of saying it makes his heart catch in his throat. “I withdrew from the Garrison completely.” 

“Shiro.” Keith is shocked at the words. His fingers encircling Shiro’s wrist loosen. He blinks and looks up into Shiro’s face. “It. Wasn’t what you wanted?” 

Shiro breathes it like a confession: “Not at all.” 

“Oh.” Keith is not surprised at that, Shiro thinks, but he blinks slowly, processing the information. His hand slips down from Shiro’s wrist to his forearm. Shiro watches as a smile tugs at his lips. “Was Tylor mad?” 

Shiro huffs out a laugh, kisses the apple of Keith’s cheek as he starts to openly grin. “So mad.” 

Keith tilts his face up, snorting out a laugh of his own before his mouth finds Shiro’s again. It’s so natural, the feel of Keith in his arms, the way they fit together. Keith kisses him, thoughtful, casual, like it’s part of the conversation. He withdraws, not so much that their noses aren’t still bumping, but just enough to ask, 

“So what will you do now that you’re a free man?” 

Shiro pauses. 

Keith must notice the change in Shiro’s lighthearted mood. He rocks back on his heels. He waits, patient, his thumb running a gentle line back and forth over Shiro’s jaw. He’s been so patient. For so long. 

If the Atlas were under attack, if his crew was looking to him for direction, if an enemy flagship and legions of soldiers were bearing down upon them, Shiro would know exactly what to say. But here, now, in this he fumbles. 

“I want.” Shiro begins. It feels strange to articulate it like this. Not what he feels he must do. Not what has been forced upon him. Not what is expected of him. What he  _ wants. _ “I want to keep flying. I want to be the Captain that the Atlas deserves. I want to keep working with Allura and the Coalition.” Shiro holds Keith closer, voice caught in his throat, mouth pressed against Keith’s forehead, “I want you at my side.”

He pushes Keith’s bangs back off his forehead, presses his mouth somewhere between his widow’s peak and his cowlick, and repeats that part. The most important part. “I want you at my side.” 

“Sounds good.” Keith says, throat audibly tight. “All of that sounds good to me.” 

“Keith,” Shiro tells him, heart thundering like a desert storm. Violent, sudden, ruinous. “I won’t make you wait for me again. I want you to know. I love you. Always.” 

It’s a new promise. One that’s not lost on Keith. He shudders in a breath that sounds like Shiro’s name. One hand swipes at his eyes. 

The sight of the tears in his eyes breaks Shiro’s heart and mends it back together again all at once. Shiro finds his mouth again, kissing him. His hand slips through the dark of Keith’s hair, trailing down from his braid to his lower back. 

“I like the sound of that,” Keith tells him, voice still thready, as Shiro wanders to kiss against his jaw, his neck. “The staying together.” 

“Better ring to it than ‘patience yields focus,’” Shiro says dryly. He punctuates the thought with a squeeze to Keith’s ass. 

Keith snorts. His gaze catches Shiro’s and there’s a fire present, one that Shiro has seen before. He runs a purposeful hand down Shiro’s chest. Unsnaps one of the complicated closures on Shiro’s flight suit. 

Shiro inhales. He sees the exact moment that Keith’s grin turns sharp. His movements are too measured to be called feral, but he works at getting Shiro undressed with a singular determination. Their breaths turn hurried, the kiss turns sloppy. Shiro finds himself fascinated with the lean, tight edges of Keith under his hands. The pebbly feel of the Marmoran fabric, the slimness of his waist, 

Keith has managed to get one shoulder free from Shiro’s suit and is working at the other when Shiro finally suggests, “Bedroom,” 

Shiro takes a step forward, pushing them along. 

“Yessir,” Keith says, voice low enough to rasp along the consonants. He leans away, pulling Shiro with him. 

The curse drops from Shiro’s mouth, thick, tight. His body feels flushed, hot. He’s hard. 

It’s a blessing that the Ariv is a compact ship. And that Keith could likely navigate throughout it blind. He’s almost forced to as Shiro succumbs to that heat, ruthless in the way he holds Keith against him as they stumble through the halls. Keith manages---adept at all things---one hands slapping blindly at the entry pad to let them into the room. 

It takes a moment for Shiro’s eyes to adjust when the door presses shut behind them. He can hear the uneven rise and fall of Keith’s chest. The wet sound of his mouth as he swallows. 

The Altean prosthetic finds the closure at the back of Keith’s Marmoran suit. Shiro tugs down the zipper, reveling in the way that Keith shivers at the cool metal and cooler air on his back. Shiro leans down to kiss beneath his jaw. The hollow of his neck. The edge of collarbone. Lower down to Keith’s chest. The creamy skin of his sternum. Shiro presses a tender kiss against the thump of Keith’s heartbeat. 

He feels Keith’s hands spasm, his fingers dragging through the back of Shiro’s close cropped hair. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, marveling at the way that Keith’s hips stutter. 

He sinks to the edge of the bed, and Shiro follows, settling on his knees between Keith’s legs. His hair has fallen over one shoulder and Shiro reaches up to brush it towards his back. Strokes his thumb over the beautiful line of Keith’s neck. He can feel Keith’s pulse racing under his skin. See the way his chest is heaving. He’s overwhelmed. 

“Too fast?” Shiro asks, aware of how low his voice is. It’s half a tease---when has Keith ever wanted to take things slow---but. Shiro clears his throat. He would never want to do anything with which Keith wasn’t comfortable. 

Keith shakes his head, messy bangs falling across his face. He pulls Shiro closer, running a hand down Shiro’s chest, over his abs. Shiro has to steady himself to avoid getting lost in the touch, so that he can listen to Keith. 

Keith is quiet. His eyes flick towards Shiro, honest. “Just didn’t think you wanted me like this.” 

The thought is wounding. Shiro shakes his head, denying it. 

“So much,” Shiro manages. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to Keith’s still clothed inner thigh. “Fu---Keith. Let me show you how much,” 

Shiro can imagine Keith fucking him. How it will feel to be laid out under him. Keith’s deceptive strength moving him, Keith in control, teasing. The snap of his hips, the focused furrow of his brow, the feel of him losing that control, spilling hot into Shiro, biting down hard on Shiro’s name. 

He wants that. But this first time he also wants to take care of Keith. However---however flows naturally for them. However Keith is comfortable. Everything else is secondary. 

Shiro moves up, following as Keith lays back against the bed. Settling over him. Keith swears as Shiro drags his tongue over a nipple before moving back up to kiss his neck. 

He looks like a dream against the dark sheets. One of his arms is splayed out, reaching---maybe for lube---and Shiro pulls it back, kissing again against his fingers. There’s no need for them to rush, he decides, as rough, calloused fingertips slip past his lips. 

He sucks soft at Keith’s fingertips, all too aware of the throbbing between his own legs, the wide blown pupils of Keith watching him. Keith withdraws his hand, running slick fingers over the line of Shiro’s jaw. 

“Have you thought about this as much as I have?” Shiro manages. He feels exposed with how much he wants. 

Keith gives a derisive snort. Throws an arm over his eyes. “Shit. Shiro. Since I was sixteen.” 

Shiro inhales a sharp breath. Confidence faltering. That’s a lot of fantasy to live up to. 

Keith peeks past his arm, eyes searching Shiro’s face. 

What he sees must surprise him. His expression softens into gentle affection before flitting to something between lust and playfulness. 

“At first I’d just think about you touching me.” Settling back into the sheets, Keith catches Shiro’s wrists in his hands. He pulls Shiro’s hands to his body. He watches the way Shiro’s touch drags along his skin, light at first then weighty. Keith lifts his ass off the bed indicating that Shiro should help him wiggle out of his pants. 

Shiro is too happy to oblige. He tugs the material down past the dark hair over Keith’s stomach, the swell of his cock. Lean muscle, pale skin, gorgeous sworls of hair over his thighs. 

Keith kicks his boots off onto the floor. They drop with a thud behind Shiro’s back. 

“Or sometimes, telling me to touch myself.” Keith continues. He swallows as he takes his cock in his hand and strokes. Shiro’s hands are tight around Keith’s waist. He watches as the blurt of pre gets smeared in Keith’s lazy strokes. 

“You always did have a problem with authority,” Shiro responds, weak. It’s been a long time for him, but the flutter of nerves has quickly been forgotten. 

Keith lets out a breath that’s half laugh. “Yeah,” 

“I wanted to suck you off so bad,” Keith says, casual, like it’s a fact of life. The earth rotates around the sun, the moon orbits around the earth and Keith jerks off to the thought of sucking Shiro’s dick. 

Shiro pushes down the rest of his suit. Finally gets a hand on his aching cock. He doesn’t miss the way Keith tracks the movement. 

“When I got a little bit older,” Keith confesses, breathier now, breath hot against Shiro’s neck. He’s leaning forward, stomach taut with the effort. Hand still around himself, stroking slow, “I’d just want you to fuck me. Anyway you like.” 

Shiro groans. He’s on top of Keith, pushing their hips together now. The drag of skin on skin is addicting. Maddening. Too much. Not enough. 

Keith ducks his head against Shiro’s neck, not embarrassed exactly, but almost a little shy. He arches, and a short gasp escapes his mouth. It’s the only tell as he comes hot over his belly and Shiro’s hand. 

It’s an honest noise, that little gasp. That noise, plus the feel of Keith’s hand settling over his own is enough to tip Shiro over the edge; “Fuck! Keith!” Shiro grinds down, mixing his own cum with the mess over Keith’s stomach. 

Keith hooks a leg around his back holding Shiro over him. He catches Shiro’s lip, the tip of his nose in a graceless kiss. Shiro smiles into it, dumb with happiness. 

“Shiro,” Keith sighs out, content. One of his hands is tracing patterns over Shiro’s back. 

“Hmm?” 

Keith flips them over. Shiro is so startled at suddenly being on his back that an ‘oof!’ escapes. Keith grins down at him, clearly pleased at having surprised Shiro and at the change in their position. 

“Sorry,” he says, positively devilish in the way that he’s sitting on Shiro’s stomach. 

“No you’re not,” Shiro chides. The Altean prosthetic floats to tug on the end of Keith’s rapidly unraveling braid. 

Keith’s breath hitches in response. His dark eyes go darker. “Be right back,” he says, ducking down to press his mouth against Shiro’s before sliding off. 

Shiro watches as Keith stands, his long legs as he crosses the room. His dick twitches against his thigh at the sight of the cum still visibly spattered across Keith’s skin. Keith ducks into the ensuite bathroom; Shiro hears the quick rush of the taps running, the sound of a cabinet open and shutting. He returns with a bottle of lube. 

Shiro scoots back in the bed, grabbing one of Keith’s pillows to prop under his head. Keith rearranges as well, pushing the rumpled sheets to the side. 

“Ignore the dog hair.” Keith says abruptly, sheepish in the way that he passes the plastic bottle between his hands. “I uh. Didn’t know you’d be in here. And the space wolf likes to sleep with me.” 

Shiro can’t think of anything better than the idea of sharing Keith’s bed, space wolf or no. He’s already picturing Keith in the Atlas’ captain suite. “My bed always feels too big,” he says, honest. “Too empty. I could use a wolf or two to fill it.” 

Keith ducks his head, smile over his mouth. “This doesn't seem real,” he mutters to himself. 

An honest rush of affection swells in Shiro’s chest. He leans on one elbow, drawing Keith in. The kiss now is lingering, smouldering heat. Slow, languorous drag. Keith wraps himself around Shiro, overtop of him. Shiro runs hands down his ribs, his waist, gets solid palmfuls of Keith’s ass. Keith’s mouth falls open and he moans into Shiro’s, grinding down, seeking friction at the same time. 

Shiro swears. “Keith,” 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. The rasp of his voice is smokey sweet. 

Shiro can see that his hands are shaking as they pop open the cap. 

“Keith, do you want,” 

Keith shakes his head, bottom lip caught in his teeth. “Let me do this, Shiro. Let me make you feel good,” 

Shiro nods, caught between Keith’s earnesty and the way it feels to have him between his legs. 

“Oh,” Shiro realizes, as slick fingers circle his entrance. 

“O-oh---” Shiro cants as Keith swallows him down and pushes one inside. 

And, Shiro. 

He didn’t realize it could be like this. To lose himself in the blissful heat of Keith’s mouth, the circle of his sure fingers. 

To feel pulled taut to the point of breaking, yet to know with such complete and utter certainty that he is safe. Loved. 

To be connected to this body. Moored here, through sense, through emotion, through experience. To feel present, in this moment. To share it so completely with Keith. 

“Ah--A-ah---Sh--” Keith is overwhelmed as he pushes inside. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration, his mouth pulls in the softest frown. 

Shiro has a hand on the back of his head. “Keith,” he says, nerves singing at the onslaught of sensation. The smell of sex and Keith surrounding him, the taste of him as Keith pitches forward, mouth open against his. The feeling of being filled, the trill of Keith’s hands over his skin. 

The way Keith says his name, 

“Shi-ro, Shiro,” he whines as his hips begin to move. 

“Yes. Kei--Keith, Keith,” Shiro says, reassuring. He has a hand pressed to the small of Keith’s back. Praises mix with expletives, “Fuck, Keith---so good, so good baby,” 

Keith shivers. His shoulder bow and he rubs a hot and heavy hand over Shiro’s thigh. 

Pleasure rolls closer, closer. Keith lifts his hips off the bed. Shiro watches him through watery eyes. The flush of his chest, the gorgeous roll of his throat as he swallows, head tilted back, fucking into Shiro. 

He comes with a low growl that Shiro feels at his very center. The sound of it rips through Shiro as Keith jerks him to completion. They fall to the bed in a tangle of sweat and heat. 

Keith pulls Shiro against him, holds Shiro close even after the flush has settled, their breaths have evened. His fingertips are light against Shiro’s back; they skate between Shiro’s shoulder blades as Shiro breathes in deep against the hollow of Keith’s neck. 

Shiro relaxes into him. 

Time slows. 

Keith is saying his name, gentle. Lips over Shiro’s face. 

And Shiro. 

He’s thinking of that night in Black. That darkest night, the night that Keith saw him at his lowest. When the nightmares were real, and he hurt Keith, and everything was shattered. Shiro didn’t have the strength to pretend that he was okay. 

It didn’t change him in Keith’s eyes. He remained devoted, strong. He’s never treated Shiro as broken. Or tried to hold him back. 

Shiro feels the tears well in his throat and at the edges of his eyes. He swallows. Keith’s hands still over his back. 

Shiro has been trying for so long to walk away from that night. But overcoming his past never should have meant leaving Keith behind. Pursuing his future should have never meant pushing Keith away. 

The tears fall and somehow Keith understands. He must. Because he says, soft, pushing the hair off Shiro’s forehead, just like he did then: “Takashi. It’s okay. We’re okay.” 

And then, after he tilts Shiro’s face up to kiss: “I love you. Always.” 

There’s a finality to it. And a permeance. 

Something that will last beyond the way the stars burn. Deeper and more meaningful than the scars that bind them. Wider than the sky above them, and no matter the distance between. 

Shiro falls asleep there, in that certainty. He’s thinking of Keith. 

*

Shiro, _ Keith thinks, once again on the Atlas, while stepping into his arms for the first time in so long.  _ I’m still yours. 

*

It doesn’t matter what time it is when Shiro wakes up. 

He’s never been good at sleeping in. So it’s likely early. It doesn’t matter. 

Keith is curled against him. 

He’s sleeping on his side, curled up into Shiro’s chest. His hands are loose fists by his face, mouth slightly parted. 

His hair has come undone, soft curls spread out against the pillow. Shiro is careful not to pull as he sits up. Keith snuffles, frowning. Not quite awake. 

Shiro stretches, the Altean prosthetic bobbling to life over his head. There’s a light feeling in his chest that matches a clarity in his mind. He looks around Keith’s quarters, blinking sleep out of his eyes for a moment, and then he realizes. It’s the feeling of waking up rested. Pain free. Without nightmares still creeping around the edges of his mind. 

(And there will be days, surely, in the future, when he wakes up and that’s not the case. When he’s exhausted and troubled. But the difference is this: the way Keith’s leg is thrown over his thigh, the way he sighs in his sleep. Utterly unguarded. Because they have each other.) 

Shiro smiles down at him, pushing the hair from Keith’s face. He makes a snap decision. 

He finds his way under the sheets, nestling down in between Keith’s thighs. He nudges him in sleep, so that Keith is more on his back. So that he can push his thighs apart. Leave slow, light kisses over every bit of skin. 

He’s already half hard. Beautiful. 

Shiro takes him into his mouth, sucking him until Keith is loose limbed against the sheets, sleepy movements that mimic fucking in the barest sense. His mouth falls open. 

He’s so sensitive. Responsive. 

“Shiro,” he murmurs. 

Shiro sits up a little better, swallowing Keith down ‘til wiry perfect curls tickle his nose, pulling off to stroke down his shaft, to mouth at his balls, take in the smell of him, tongue along the underside of his cock. Shiro enjoys the feel and the weight of it as he takes Keith back in his mouth. 

Keith wakes up with a moan louder than the ones he allowed himself the night before. His eyes are hazy when he looks down and sees Shiro. Spits out a hoarse, “Fuck!” at the sight. 

Shiro enjoys the way Keith’s thighs tremble as he gets closer, the way his feet drag along the sheets, toes curling. He likes the way Keith’s hands brush pointlessly over his hair. The taste of him as Keith spills into his mouth. 

He especially likes it when he smiles at Keith and tells him ‘good morning,’ and Keith’s face is so red that he can only mumble in response. 

Shiro sits up and kisses against his neck, pressing his lips to the scar at the edge of Keith’s jaw. Keith pinches him and Shiro retaliates with rubbing his rough, stubbly cheeks against his skin. 

Keith barks out a laugh at the sensation, kicking his legs and shoving Shiro off. The sound feels like a prize. 

*

It doesn’t matter how much time has passed---after Keith has crawled back on top of him and kissed Shiro’s lips sore. 

After they’ve managed to shower together in Keith’s one person shower. 

After Keith has somehow managed to pull together a full breakfast, and is seated across from Shiro. Shiro sips at strong coffee and watches as Keith shovels scrambled eggs onto toast and talks with his mouth full. 

He feels like he couldn’t be more lucky. 

“So what’s the plan now?” Keith asks him, later, when his plate is scraped clean. There’s a teasing edge to his voice, but a real curiosity too. 

Although Keith will no doubt continue with the Blades, and Shiro will continue on as a leader in the Coalition, it won’t be quite the same. This is uncharted territory. A new beginning, in some ways. 

Shiro nods. There’s still so much work to be done. But. 

“Well. Considering yesterday I almost froze to death. Saved a semi-sentient alien warship from sudden, monumental collapse that was due at least in part to my own denial of unarticulated needs. Quit my job. Tracked down the love of my life in the vast expanse of outer space.” Shiro grins. “Completely obliterated him in a race.” 

Keith shoves Shiro’s knee with his foot under the table. 

Shiro winks. “Considering all that. I thought I’d take today off.” 

“Yeah?” Keith asks. His smile is bright. 

Shiro nods. It’s been a long time since they sparred together. Or maybe he’ll try taking Keith out to dinner again. Finish catching up. Or maybe they’ll just stay docked on this unnamed land, in this small pocket of happiness for a little longer. 

Shiro is not racing against the clock anymore. He’ll linger here, with Keith, content to let the moments stack up. They have the rest of forever. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this angsty ultra dramatic take on post canon sheith!! My prekerb fic became something very close to my heart, and writing this sequel for it was an absolute joy. I'm always and forever a Keith stan, but through this fic in particular, I've really learned to love Shiro. he is so good. he deserves everything. tell your friends, tell your mom

**Author's Note:**

> find me [ on twitter](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan) for many many retweets of Keith, and also only the finest of cat related content 
> 
> thank you very much for reading. leave a comment or a kudos if you like <3
> 
> EDIT! THERE IS [ART](https://twitter.com/pk4n_/status/1245833782910836736?s=20)!!!! thank you so much nat!!!


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